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.