It is anachronistic
doesn't know time or meaning.
It has wings to fly, teeth to bite.
It has flesh, but it belongs to me.
It lies dormant at times, awakens
when words crowd its being.
In infinite spaces it climbs and I
am its willing soul. My poem, heartache
do you spout the nonsense of today? Look
at the world, demented creatures are flooded
by time and merciless wish fulfilment.
Do you know Iraq or Syria, the Middle East
the Middle West?

Come, we can seek the world which does not exist here
in faraway moons, where only a poem sits on top of
the crescent mountain. Waves there will not torment
but will break shores in worded meanings of rhythm.