He knew
turning his face away
would release the Doves
nesting within.

They had rested there for years,
occasionally taking flight,
to split the sky
a blaze of white.

Please
seemed too small a word
to implore.

Beg
was never enough.

Ask and ye shall receive,
a red gold thread,
woven through the palms of his hands.

The Dove's coo,
echoing in the cold air
of sea spray shorelines
jagged with the knowledge
nothing ever changes.

If only,
the two words
he let fall from pursed lips.

But the Doves would return,
time and again covering him
in bright white comfort
rustle wing softness of
depthless resonance.

They flew wild in his face,
till he became an empty place,
filling slowly,
with lost,
forgotten feathers.