Missile Over Kyiv

There's a trail in the sky, licked by the moon, like blood vessel passing the blue, thin lines on the horizon, in frontier dust, splitting the land with fleeting aversions. In a moment of despair, hazy memories of bustling tourists ferried to airport, looking down for Maidan Square, with their velvety eyes, not the eagle eyes of a new iron curtain drawn by every missile, their screeching noise whispering a new tragedy; erased are memories of east and west harmony, sapped by the hounds of war, saddled on hypersonic madness.