When doves come to rest on hardened shoulders,
they have many stories to tell,
for up in the sky they know too well,
of earthly paradise and hell,
and they say what needs to be said of what is seen and what is done,
But the iron beneath never cracks nor softens, in ice nor in blazing sun,
The crows - they come too - to caw and cackle in cast ears their death-breath kinds of warnings,
But still and steady the focus stays...no chance in second mornings,
Up above further, past the flocks and flutters - the pens fly across the pages,
Only justice in their duty - Record! Lest the story is decreed to age,
And so the doves return tirelessly until that time - of which there is no doubt,
cooing "look beyond the walls you built of fear and hypocritical grout...
...to succumb to the solution you have been petrified without"
Speckled across the world, caged hearts shriek and squawk in ruffles of remorse:
"Yes! The Olive Tree once green - bleeds greed - go see what it's all about!"
Yet even Truth cannot turn the heads of statues...facing inward - and never out.
