what face of change darkens the thin light
sculpting out the wet glass of stormy sand
a forced feeling of damp anxiety
leaving the lungs in a warm breath
i have torn the limbs from the dying tree
and sown the seeds of perpetual motion
filling out the atmosphere in strange designs
i will shift the shape of time honored tradition
to embark on dawn light cruises
that lash out at eternity
and in these words i craft the miles green
born of the slow flow wasting
a plastic ocean surge
from the steps of the tibetan highlands
to the low arching valley of death
a satellite searching the deep, dark web
flush with the screams of distant life
powdered for the dance of nations
and in the rank and file
and in the time of tradition honored
we mark the faceless souls of men
to brand them as bloodless enemies
for we look not within
at the dark mirrored shiftings
casting only outward
to the shallow depths of mortar
and we walk along the crumbling
of stones so lofty once
and swallow the dust of sadness
the burning throng of lust
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/23/12
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