Silver feathers

In the dawn of lies mixed in truth,
where the clouds spelling fey
were neither black nor white but grey,
I roamed around aimlessly to find
a way to withdraw the drenching clouds from my mind.

As I rode on the swing of life alone
with thoughts of solitude and helplessness,
I felt a gentle push of pure warmness
from a white dove that soared through
the heart of the skies that altered as it flew.

The dove was my selfless savior, my guardian, my friend.
I looked with awe at its feathers, radiating silver,
which trekked me all the way into the river
of pain and desperation, before I drowned,
and helped me, with great effort, on to the mound.

As I recovered from my fall,
I tugged onto the soft tuft of hope
until I no longer felt the hangman's rope
that promised to clutch me until
my last breath died out of will.

The dove took me above the clouds,
which were then just plain black and white,
into the blue sky, ever so bright,
to show me how answers are found
without the mind ever being profound.

There came a dreaded day,
when the dove could no longer fly
with its tired wings, overused in the sky.
I could only watch as the dove twitched in pain
until it crumbled into its feathery remains.

I gathered up the silver feathers
that I always desired, but no longer needed
and decided to use them for the wounded,
helping them see how answers are found
without the mind ever being profound.