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Their are no doves when you die

Their are no doves in the sky

And even though I know it may hurt

Their are no doves among the dirt

Forever the doves are bundled in perception

As time lingers on your terminal flesh

Slowly rotting with each gasp

The organs are a mess

The macrocosm is living through all

And flapping and fluttering through the breeze

Like a leaf fallen from a tree

The wind carries no doves

It offers only what it blows

The leafs a crackling now

No doves, only crows.

Covered in dirt and coated in moss

Strengthened by stone both nurtured and washed

The flourishing petals of life's rebirth

The blossoming flowers of spring on earth

Fresh and moist

Damp with lust

Set to hoist

Soon to rust

And buried, to be one with the dirt

Sowing seed and spreading spores

Attracts crows, vultures and carrion birds

Traversing long to reach the shores

No doves to bless the final words

No doves in the cage

No doves among the dirt