My Lovely Little Dove

Swimming gold and orange and red,
Tendrils of warmth,
Arms and legs writhing amidst a thorny bed…

Something of the smell of sickly winds
And the lust for blood,
Something of the sight of the spiders, 
Drowning in puddles of mud…

O’, the swirling gold, orange, and white, 
Licking the sky,
The satisfaction a wolf gains from blood in his bite…
The malice, and burning disdain,
The flames of hell in thine eyes,
Something thou surely couldst not feign!
Oh, ye love it, why repent?
Come now, thou art callous,
Thine rage, ‘tis but love from ferment!

Go now, succumb my dove,
Simply to thy malice, shouldst thou hark,
Fear not, feathered friend, for thou art my love…
This dark from within?
Fear not, ‘tis nature’s way,
Simply, of settling her kin…

Is it hatred or betrayal that sets us hellbound?
Either way, fear not, little bird,
For these are the last thoughts thou hast found,
These flames last to lick thy heart,
As thine head simply bows and eyes look down,
Fear not little dove!
For ‘tis the hour for thy head to lay upon the ground.