A Mourning Dove
She sits above the rolling waves,
Her golden waves capture the sun,
The sunlight beckons wistful slaves,
Enslaved their hearts are led to dun.
For her beauty entraps the soul,
The soulful songs she sings at sea
As eyes see her beauty cajole,
So cajoled they can ne’er be free.
And I, the poet, gave my art,
In artful words pleading for love,
But can love touch her wicked heart,
Or leave my heart her mourning dove?
Form: Wreathed Quatrains
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