Will you pity me or love me,

before the committee?

Question their lasciviously pious pitfalls. 

Plumaged viper,

We’re both condemned by spitballs 

and hung like doves on fire-ovens. 

Know their pity-love is only borrowed until you’re left hollowed with intestines 

cooked and swallowed. 

The dove you were 

was destined to scorch.

Heaven’s touch, foolish bird, belonged to me not hawks. Now we burn 

in flocks. 

Who will taste our flesh then try to fest on our fall? They never sought out the gangrenous gash that will ooze and rot 

on their tongue. They never thought we’d turn poison into power. 

Slow consumption travels through the veins,

dove pieces dissolved in acid, 

fumes resolved to enter blood and prey on hawks.

Know the flames are soft

until more doves fall lull

and with their feathers feed fires

that will one day silence withering sires.