Her Mourning Dove

Her Mourning Dove
Form: Quatrains

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?


1 Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.