The Dove Is Dead

Raindrops fall from my faith
As I kneel, bent, crippled,
Not understanding.
Unseen, the white dove
Flies overhead,
Never landing near,
Never to be touched by me.
The smooth green ivy
Strokes my face,
But the thorns of this
Broken Church
Are pulled taut around
My knees, my hands, my back.
A black serpent winds up my side,
Whispering my anxiety into my ear.
The rain runs purple, blue, and green,
Always dirty, never pure.
But as my knees begin to ache,
As I hear the echo of
My voice unheard,
Gradually,
The colors fade.
The rainbow has been taken
From me,
And the rain makes my sodden
Clothes heavy,
My head bowed.
My obedience comes with no reward
But confusion and the promise
Of The Unknown.
But as I slowly feel myself dying,
As I fail to put my heart into words,
I find myself further trying
To coerce that elusive white dove
To land.
With each failure comes a confession,
With each of those a prayer.
Yet unanswered, I stumble
I cry
And these bleak, colorless thorns
Dig into my side
And still the dove refuses to come.
But I still fight to stand,
To find that sacred, hidden being,
Because this cross has been
Willingly Chained
To my back,
And this is the cross that I must bear,
However imperfect or unnecessary.
But as I suffocate, slowly, mindlessly,
I see no splotch of white,
Nor a hint of surviving rainbow,
And I become convinced
More and more
That this sweet, white, free
Merciful bird is dead.