Syrian Dreams of the Arab Spring

A pockmarked plane atop the wooden box tilts as it dips in the Syrian void, its hollow compartment lining the faults like a silver ball which never rests but always rolls, always weary those worrisome holes that chisel the quarry to calcified clumps. Six years spent fighting, flushing freedom from his nepotistic keep, have rendered al-Assad a face full of age, nights free of sleep, and lucid dreams of an Arab Spring flooding the fields his brother plowed. There he stands, slaying the wakened womb that would bury its own for stable graves, aware there’s a million more marching outside his door. 5/25/17