We'Re All Hungry Ghosts

How intoxicated I am with the swirl of armies, bodies and armor. Trampled by those running away from or running to war. But we're all hungry ghosts, moving towards our deaths with a casual sense, as if passersby to an accident. I think of her and smelling her wrist, whilst she slept next to a fallen statue of a grieving angel, half-male half-female image we both found beautiful. I loved how she was bothered by the routine of life, needing a present of flowers in an old jar, set on table to see as she glided down the steps, carpet worn and faded. The swirl of a half-translucent dress as she passes through sunlight, feels my eyes upon her and smiles. Dust dances in a column of light and scatters, as she moves from darkness to me. Woman is the word for god on the lips and hearts for all men, and I close my eyes. (I can feel her next to me like a premonition on a deserted street). Now, in the rubbish of hours and in a land of blue sky and wretchedness, I wonder who she smiles for. Ah, in the distance I hear adhan. In the distance. All these other things, worthless, vague dreams, only half remembered cares without destination or purpose, were never as real as the vision of her promise. A worthless sacrifice, a horrible choice. Was love something I dreamt, while wrapped in oil, felt and darkness? Now, only my dreams feel the footsteps of longing, hobnail echoed, baked in clay, and I awake confused, strange. Like the seconds between flash to bang, I know love to loss. But for now, I blink as the rising pink orange of the sun, suddenly lights the sky and surrounding to a blood red, burnt to goldness the color of mustard fields, shining animated as reflections on the desert, shine, shine blinding into my sleep heavy eyes.