LINES OF THOUGHT © 2016

But crying is a state,

Of an irony from the past,

Like echoes resonating in the void,

Memories that time took away, cold and lost.

Doves flying at the edge

Of a precipice without light, without shore.

Soaring in the dark, without direction,

Like hearts lost in the vast expanse.

And still, the tears cease,

Like one who accepts the pain that crosses.

For in the flight of the doves, there is hope,

Even at the edge of the abyss, there is change.

For Nicola.

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