Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

I sign, and from the moment when my ink -
naive and plain - lays down its life, I cry.

Microwaved air brushes against anxiety
plays with our concentration, dances with sweat.

Our eyes: giant pendulums patrol inside this brimming bucket, guarding the lies.

Children, ragged and seemingly archaic, graze
in herds along this expanse. This thirsty sight

calls for aid. Sand slips sensually
into every cranny. I can taste the insanity.

Falling like trees they multiply, lining up
nought after nought with the lick of my trigger.

Featureless faces lay gaunt; their cheekbones defiant and dark reach out for 
consolation.

Blood-curdling screams scratch scathingly
throughout my body, grating on my bones.

I am lost. We are the foreigners.

I want to go home.

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