Before the battles had I seen the feathery bird,
against the scarlet sky, brilliantly white
like snowflakes atop a cannibal bite.
And then during the night of strife, again;
the black was infinite, so was the red –
in your pinions, I know not, or my eyes.
Daybreak came indeed, saw us in blood mere,
your plumes claret against my hoary bones;
two broken souls in ruins psychedelic.
Dread not, li’l dove, allow to be cradled;
my nails are soggy, wounds are soft,
hands tender, raw and warm.
May sneaky death be quaked in your quivers, but
let your scabs in ichor mine, be soaked to garbs
to your gashes I’d heal to abstracts sublime.