Sonnet #4: She is a Butcher, Not of Animals

She is a butcher, not of animals,
Of names and dreams and all that comes between.
A blade she holds, it is implacable, 
It yearns for more and weeps for all it’s seen.
She butchers her bird’s wings and holds them fast,
She cuts away the muscles and the fat. 
Her tears are gold, they melt and do not last,
She dips her head, hides eyes beneath a hat.
Such life slips quickly, look, the weeping thief!
Stealer of lives, of hope and all else kind.
When sleepers sleep and dreamers dream their grief,
The butcher wakes, some nightmare makes her blind.
So tell me, butcher of the things you love,
Who carved your heart— the pure and white-winged dove?