I stood in a large, dying wheat field, utterly alone,
Black crows sprouted at my feet like poppies for those lost.
Hundreds of the birds rose from the ground; crow on top of crow, they began their deafening mock of my sins.
As they rose to take flight, whirling around me like a tornado of darkness, they turned into doves,
Their whiteness a happier contrast to the dark, but that was was short lived, for beyond the birds was a figure,
When the birds cleared that is when I saw her, she was made out of such pure light that I had to lift my hand to not be blinded.
She had an opaque right hand and the left out stretched, palm up;
In the outstretched hand I saw a heart, it was beating so strong and in tune with the innocent melody she was humming.
That is when I felt it, the hole in my chest,
For that was my heart in her hand.