There is a storm
That is turning hearts into story tellers
And Wise elders chanting an ode to sadness
Hoping its fists could claw a way out
Of their sullen eyes and stretch just far enough
To polish the clouded thoughts of quiescent beings

A storm of gray splatters on otherwise perfectly blue skies
Filled with reflections of first school days, and Makeshift street stadiums
A storm of children turned into ghosts
Haunting the mausoleums that these streets have become
As the gray splatters slowly turned into ****** ones
And the trust of men was put into guns
Instead of other humans
As though cold lifeless metal
Could compete with a beating heart
As though men who happen to be white
Are most appropriate to decide who wins the battle
No body wins the battle, No body wins in war
There are only rubbles, and catacombs
For the comfortable ones, who convinced themselves
That they were bestowing favors on the dying


Fleeing death is apparently not a good enough reason
To be deserving of a land that was never even ours
And mourning little boys found on shores
is only good until the hashtag is out of season

so you tell me, does sadness reside in the pity
of a heart seeking reassurance of its goodness
or does it surrender when it meets the resilience
of children who made their roofs out of starry nights

Blackbird
shadow death
witness
the spiraling
madness

glide
silent over
once vital beehive
shorn gray
paper thin

sip
raw honey
hardening
in the merciless
heat

nourish
the suffering
concentration-camp thin
jutting bone
slack skin

reflect
the boundless light
of a shield
wrought from
love

honor
these golden
futile gestures
they are not
infinitesimal grains

Blackbird
with beaded sight
testify
*do not avert
your eyes

Syria

"**** the adults, save the children"
Plea of parents from war torn Syria
Children being killed for 'throwing stones'
Parents dying from broken hearts
Worlds most immoral army
Fabricating the deaths of men, women
Young, and old
The world is quiet oh so quiet
There are humans but no humanity
A word known as justice
But nobody here to deliver it
The world is a cruel place
None will speak until its them that suffer :(
Why is it so hard to let each other live in peace?

Dear Children,

You do not deserve to live in fear.

You do not deserve to lift your hands in surrender when you have done no wrong,
To hide in fright at the sight of the ones who claim authority,
To come home to your houses destroyed,
To have your playmates beaten before your very eyes,
To have mom and dad abused for beliefs they do not live by,
To have your neighbors shot for reasons you do not understand,
To struggle falling asleep when the sound of bombs and gunshots fill the airwaves,
To have military planes speed above you instead of kites,
To have your brothers and sisters hold you close as you tremble and sob,
To have danger and war as all you know.

But children, please remember that what you see and know isn't all there is to the world.

Somewhere out there, perhaps quite far for now, beautiful places await you
Where there is love in the arms that will welcome you,
Gentleness in the touch of strangers,
Parks to sit under blue skies and watch the clouds pass,
Homes where you will be safe and sound,
Quiet nights where you can sleep at ease, the stars watching over you,
And no more war and what you have known all your life.


For now, I only hope that the barren lands you walk on barefoot will begin to grow greener pastures,
I hope flowers grow amidst the rubble and destruction,
I hope the sounds of war will be softened with lullabies,
I hope you will soon be able to play street games and watch sun set,
I hope you will snuggle between your parents at night to sleep soundly,
I hope you will be able to fly kites and build dreams,
I hope you will never grow to become angry and miserable all your days,
I hope you will never feel at fault for things you have never done.

And I wish that you remain hopeful for the day you will be free to wander to better places, away from the turmoil you've come to know, the way you deserve to.

Explosions and gunfire wherever you walk,
not knowing your fate as the hands whirl around the clock.
Blood running like a river through the streets of rubble,
body parts scattered around - each one of them has crumbled.

They've declared a war again like many times before,
not caring about the civilians; battle commences more and more.
History is repeating itself time and time again,
it seems as if they cannot from bloodlust abstain.

This is about the innocent lives that'll be inevitably lost,
their precious and innocent souls are the greatest cost.
Their last memories will be that of brutality and threat,
and watching their family die randomly one by one; like a game of Russian Roulette.

Masses of skeletons and piles of bones
will litter the lanes as common as stones,
and their names will always remain unknown,
and as they perish they will do so despondent and alone.