Dove's Mouth: A Painting of Destruction and Beauty
A Symbol of Peace, a Reminder of the Power of Destruction
A canvas of colors, a brush in hand
Creating a world, both bright and grand
A stroke of white, a dove takes flight
But in its mouth, a deadly sight
An atom bomb, a symbol of fear
A reminder of the pain we bear
But in this painting, a message true
That even in destruction, beauty can ensue
For in the chaos, a new world is born
And through the ashes, a new day dawns
With every brushstroke, a story unfolds
A reminder that beauty can be found in the old.
A dove in flight, a symbol of peace
But in this painting, a release
A reminder that in every end
A new beginning, a new chance to mend.
About the Creator
Sarath S
My name is Sarath S – an article writer with an eye for detail and a passion for storytelling. My aim is to bring the world closer by creating unique stories and connecting people through the written word. Follow me and join the journey.
A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge2 days ago in Poets
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