This world is not what we expected it to be.
Hopes trampled over by time and wares.
Scarring that white dove.
The sun grows dimmer day by day,
And burns more the darker it becomes.
This growing anxiety,
Crushes that white dove.
Breathes become shallow.
This world was not what we had hoped.
This world is not perfect.
We are not perfect.
That white dove,
Has always been a faint shade of gray.
The life fades from that doves eyes,
It is nothing but a worthless dead bird.
We are not we thought we were.