Particle Bird

The Dust on the floor looks like a Dove,

Dead, with its neck twisted

By Cruel Hands.

The slightest bit of wind

Moves the particles,

Further Mangling

Its Avian Image

Claws tense, feathers askew,

And beak shattered,

The dust stares.

The Dove

My Dove

Pleads for help

Out of pity, I blow,

The Dust rises,

The Dove ascends,

Into a million diamond facets

Which Dazzle,

Then go out of focus.