season of mourning doves.

on vacation 
far away
from the people
who loved your face

dying on this island
fearing assassin suns
near the shallow end
the water blue and odd:

mornings are warm
nights are warmer
but you have never been
so cold and lone.

why, 
ships never came 
to rescue you, 
Helen of nowhere

frozen, wondering
if he were born
or has yet died,
Paris of never.

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