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The Milk of Mourning Doves.
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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.
