A cigarette lit.
An amber flared.
A mind at ease.
The sky, a friend,
with calm sublime,
but broke the blue
with a whip.
A rupture
red,
Inside
he
felt,
spreading across
the land.
Just before
the end
drew close,
a thousand
tongues
struck the song
of war.
All that’s left
when he closed
his eyes-
the ambrs
burned by
War.
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The Dove
It nested there,
as they all do_
because this is what they do:
one layer of dried sticks
laid over the old,
held fast by secretions,
generations of that.
It cooed against grey walls,
bouncing off prayers
for a thousand years.
Now from a sheikh,
once from a priest,
a warlord,
an augur
that read the signs
in the dove’s entrails
searching for hope.
The Tattered Throne
As I sat down, miles and miles away from home, trotting through my memoir and trudging from shore to shore, hoping to find one of the muses that I adore to face my darkest fear: that of filling a page and not to bore, I found an old scribble I wrote during the peaceful days of yore a decade before the war.
The memory itself had almost vanished, or rather I had probably banished it along with most of the memories that I deplore. I thought then to abort the mission for who would choose to leave heaven towards hell to explore? Yet the staring empty page brought me more terror than I could endure. So, I embarked on my journey, and through the hellish rabbit hole I jumped as I have never done before, and so I began to read.
I visited my grandfather today, a stern man who…
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The Book Of Life 