The Milk of Mourning Doves.

Hyacinth garden

Passionless feel of this cold dark night.

Hours away from the morning light

I am in a fruitless search to fill the void.

My voice lost in the winds destroyed.

Lips tremble against absent kisses.

All the heat my body misses.

How to answer: this I repress.

Come within the stillness.

Lost dreams invention, they weep so long.

Hear my confession, in a five-note song.

I miss you, with all my loves,

As I yearn to taste the milk of Mourning Doves.

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