A whispering dove cannot hold water
to a soul that lingers upon the clouds
so full of colour. Lest it suffer slaughter
at the hands of children draped in shrouds.

Little fiends that creep in the shadows,
hiding in corners and stealing the breathe
of the living during slumbering throes,
nightmare passions and angering souls seethe.

Precious little cherubs that rock us in the light
only to bind us to darkness upon the setting sun
that breaks to the blanket of a darkening midnight
in perilous journeys where souls always run.

The cry at midnight is that of a fallen dove,
slain by the little hands of a dangerous cherub
with glassy eyes and porcelain hands of love.

… Beware, this is a child of Beelzebub.