What luck?
White dove of peace,
bloodied, nailed to its wooden cross, 
awaiting death like a wounded duck.
Come Angel, pray, desperate release,
while errant dreams lay still,
on a patch work quilt of moist green moss.
Trudge uphill,
from that incurable place,
a slow death,
seeking fire and rain.
If luck be with us,
no room for loss,
only latitude for gain.
What love,
if love be true,
mends a broken heart?
That dying dove,
mended hearts be few,
tears flood o'er every broken part.
If God exists,
if love be true,
if love heals,
imagine passionate love,
rallying compassionate trysts.
Heaven's gentle kisses too,
whilst holy ghosts caress wounded souls,
the spirit feels,
infinite love, in heavenly time and colour,
that place where hearts are mended,
wounded souls are tended,
where brave angels exist with untold valour.
While here on earth, light's ethereal plane,
existence remains, existential.
Life is suffering, savage greed and lust always vane,
though air and water, true love too, so essential.
But luck, like peace, so seldom rendered,
and those wounded hearts,
like broken lives,
are tempered cold with rain.