Transit Poem

 

The way it happens proves too much

 

Russian weapons carved for a dead menace

sold to hungry Hezbollah

 

Borders get pierced

 

A regime firm as bone

takes in the Shiite mobs

 

An ayatollah fingers a final prayer bead

before the burnt fridges of Homs

 

This is called ash

That is called hole

 

In Aleppo a stalemate forks neighbors

feathered gunfire plays siege

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s