The mud,
Spattered on my jeans like droplets of
Brown blood
From a rotting wound inflicted by a few sacred doves.

We approach a house - a lone run down house, the kind that only Hollywood portrays.  It’s almost quiet.  I think I’ve seen this movie before.  The birds chirp periodically and long since forgotten about sheets of rusty corrugated iron creak gently in the moist breeze.  This is murder's soundtrack.

Turn slowly. Do not dither over pointless options, my friend.  There is only one course of action. Walk away slowly.
Quick pace will not win us this race. 
Creatures in fear always bolt in jagged formations, thus rousing all the flesh maddened carnivores from sweet slumber.
Composure is the key.
Feigned leisure will keep this killer’s invisible dogs at bay – for a while anyway.

I feel cheated though.  Why have I ended up back where I started?

Nature dictates that the weak should be persecuted, who then is it, that decides who should be named as the persecutors?
Is it God?
Is it our appointed authorities?
Is it the insane?
Is it our strict fathers, or is it our overbearing mothers?
Is it disease?
Is it tempt, is it unrelenting tempt?
Or is it simply the unknown?

I made a wrong choice today, I chose to believe what I have been told to believe and it took me longer to get home.  They say home is where the heart is.  Here’s a question, what would happen if one day your heart gives up waiting for you and leaves because you are forever late.  What happens if you are too busy believing in what others have told you, what then?  Answer that one on your own, I won’t influence you.

The sweat
Was spattered on my forehead like clammy jewels of
Hot regret
From the decision to hate every single pigeon because of a few sacred doves.