Tiffany Rainey

October 25, 2004

Literature- 4th Period

Hinson

To Whom We Place the Blame

A life full up of all the grief we take

shall come to her small shoulders… and it waits.

Waits for the moon to shine once more 'pon us,

Waits for the sun to rise with beaming joy.

Waits while we go about on our own way…

A dove is she whose shoulders we all brace

our troubles and our fears that would condemn

us into an eternity of blame.

So this gleaming white dove dost rest upon

a perch where she does sing throughout the night.

And she with the voice of an angel's cry,

which to your eyes would bring sorrow's weeping.

Burdens that we refuse to lay our claim

grow heavily for her to bear with pride.

But all she can do remains out of reach,

so with a slouching presence she remains

atop that rotting perch with no grievance.

Her voice grows smaller with the weight we place

upon the shoulders of such majesty.

The dove that cooed outside my window wakes

to the aching pain I know she reg'lly bears.

The lover lost, the sun forever set…

Take flight my love into the dark'ning sky;

Leave this place of horror that we reside,

and so she does with tear drops on her wings.