Dove...

When a dove wanders limply through the woods,
its broken wings dragging at its sides
like the sins of so many others
trudged around begrudgingly
like the necessary burden the good take on for the wicked.
When the fresh soil catches its imprint,
tiny claws that wish to hold, but can barely stand,
only to be washed away in the forgotten morning
and overgrown with moss and dew.
When deep crimson bespeckles its fine plumage and crusts and rots to brown
and its breathing begins to falter
like the rush of a tide in summer storms
and it calls out in hopelessness, loneliness,
fear of that of which it knows no concept.
When its last mournful tune escapes its winged heart,
and ears behind the bushes perk up
and teeth glisten like ivory swords of death
and a hunger calls to break it at its neck,
do I dare to walk on by?
Or must I stand there shaking, swallowing the fear that's flooded in my eyes?

I too will.
I too will someday die.