I wrote this about a year ago to convey my thoughts to a girl who never ever heard them. Originally, I set them up as a series of eight numbered days. I’ve already posted the first three without the day titles for some reason, but here’s Day Four.
Perched, like the purest dove,
She overlooks all that is
And ever will be for me.
She must know what awaits
Must be aware of all the pain,
Like finely carved arrowheads,
She sends my way from her spot
Atop the altar I built for her.
Before her enshrinement,
The angel way up out of my reach
Was pinned down before me
By her own doubts, misconceptions
About who she was and
Could ever still be.
And like a fool, a hopeless martyr,
I taught her how to turn chains
To dust, and broken wings to
Weightless clouds built for flying.
With words of praise and understanding,
I lifted her with my own two hands,
Set her high up beyond my reach,
And promptly forgot how to fly.
If you’re a dove on a pedestal,
I’m but a hawk without talons.