Under Cosmos Blankets We May Only Sleep

A net of ubiquity drapes over the globe,
accumulating wonders for the enlightened eye
and asphyxiating every cultural anaerobe.
We’ll leave their relics to become calcified
and exhibit them with the undignified.

Any custom is a costume to be tried
and stripped away when it becomes pale.
Apply the treatment; blood of genocide,
wash away, and remember to exhale,
no need to perceive the finer detail.

Damascus sent silks to western restaurants,
but when it sent the waves of wandering souls,
the diners sat back, called them combatants.
They consumed the kamayeh in their bowls
and choked as they cried for border controls.

There stands a chapel of hollow icons;
globetrotting facades to collect and keep
safe as we let atrocities become bygones.
As the apex of tension heightens too steep
under cosmos blankets we may only sleep.


Pass The Burning Glove

This baton is made of burning steel,
searing with haste to pass it through
to another spoke upon the wheel.
The hand that holds is ice concealed
with a melting core just out of view.

To whom that bears the orb and scepter
or of the solemn gavel and mantle,
turn away and reject the spectre,
vaunt not the pick nor the prospector
to ensure our world is not dismantled.

For those who fall among the mass
who feel as would a grain of sand,
whatever shall be will come to pass.
Not a soul to think that they’ll be the last
to pass the burning glove to the next frozen hand.

All-Seeing Aren’t the Eyed

A curtain’s descent occurs without sound;
nothing to announce the stifle of the shroud.
Gauze veils annex the sun from the forlorn,
and a murmuring to muzzle the mendicants’ mourn.
All so light abounds, we must dwell with clouds;
gliding through contrails on the borders of a storm.

The city walls are laid for the solace of the few
who live between shades of saturnine blue.
Banners proclaim it to be a sanctum of elevation
concealing the nature of psychic amputation.
The discarded truth, betrays a glimmer of abuse
as light was turned away from the covert sequestration.

All-seeing aren’t the eyed, who daren’t turn eyes upon the blind.
Sightless aren’t the blind, transcending the limits of the eyed.


I see a metropolis of swarming bees
with confiscated humanity
yet a hive of activity.
Within a necropolis of entropy
sundered from all ecstasy;
the heaviest of realities.

The horizon reveals another way;
the blue breaking of dawning day
shrouded in Summer’s haze.
The anchorite’s mantle begs me to stay
among desert sands ablaze
devoid from every passing gaze.