Confused by thoughts, I find myself chasing the world. But that brings me sadness. Unencumbered by thoughts, the world comes to me. And everything seems more settled. And I am at peace.
‘Have you thought to leave the city, and take back your harsh wind?’ – she asked the soldier. In this place now, the rats ooze amongst the dead. And the coffee has gone cold, dropped among blood-stained stones. What is this raving? Born from a black filthy comet, that goes around, and around.
Once we looked west, then east. A bloom in the world, to the indifferent and the blind. Now, the internet wires cry in the wind. And we live in a saved body. But of a purpose, dumb. And a lasting holiness.
Howling wolves at the door, and rivers on fire. Besieged, yet strong cities- redrawing the lines of hard times. I still see your smile, and celebrations of birthday dreams. Whom will speak of this, when hell’s fire covers this land?
Here lies a sick world. Waiting for a plain grave. I have a few snapshots, of how it used to be. The days we spent holding and kissing each other, before the battles. But love was not timeless. The feast was not your body, but the formless lumps of death scattered across the city. Your breathing in of the blast, the final sky. The softness of your lips, the last kiss.
This is all too familiar. A monster of the lungs, jumping the skies. Scrubbing the streets clean of the fingers and toes, that glow through the night. And the rest of us, mouths of endangered speech.
What do I leave behind? The heritage of a world set free, or the skins swollen from knife-steal and bone dust? From mouth to mouth, the long nights of hatred will end. And sad stinging words will matter no more. What will be left? One man, one woman, one child and a new humanity. A little beauty, from this ugliness.
The bombs danced again, last night. And the people cried. Not for fear of death, or the dancing slum lords that shine their way.
But to stand together with a certain fiery passion. Waiting for victory’s fruit, and the eternal snow, that sleeps beneath the pines. To return once again.
A Wandering Poet 