Dirge of Aleppo

Whorls of smoke mock the void of the heavens; in a wiggling ascent With lusting waists of a samba decent. Turmoil combs the fragile mane of the soil The scalp is torn and leathery fingers of dust rest against the helm. The stench of burning tires staggers on its knocked feet. Embers are peach, ashes are red; a jihad is ablaze. While ceasefire less sure-fire, birthdays wis deathdays; Missiles are fireflies, explosions are lullabies and cops are corpses. Life lays under the belly of the drone And Islam feels a bending moment about the fulcrum of redefinition. Fathers rot in the mild stomach of war; Mothers drought in barren maroon eyes; The succulent chaste vines of daughters squashed for concubines; Cheerful flames of innocence choke in lanterns of caliphates, Quills swim in ink, wrists are steady and boys are authors of death. A realm lit with dead air, no heirs Human rights lay in mass graves While death and her cousins dance in a masquerade. Soils are rich with the blood they sip Walls bleed on in reds of graffiti. White phosphorus rains, post traumatic stress reigns the rainbows. Wings are spread and the tail is cocky, Tides are breathing and the black flag wafts on, With flickers of pride darting off its white scribblings. But the drone cuddles its belly, licks its fingers, The drone burps as the flag wafts on.