Sin of Semantics

Inherited by a sentence

What is it that weeps

Inside the frontier

Between

the rivers and mirrors?

Darkness s  p l   i  n  t  e  r  s  as my sun

And I   —   f   a  l  l

into a

place

That stems from you

Wounds bloom like morning prayers

Flush of glass-doors

Brush

The paisleys

of my shawl —

Broken stars are

plucked wicks

On the roof of eye..

Light pregnant with Silence

was coppice

              of dotted lines

Oil-lamps glimmer

On birth of wet letters

Cold, dark

Planets

Floating on killed papyrus

Noah’s Ark

Ferried the corpses:

Chopped words don’t always

Die in a gutter

…the gray patch is curled within

Deep wine voice

Moony blossoms

Announce the mist of past:

Archangel of waiting lines.

Thoughts-winds-feathers

Blow

As unripe harvest of commas

Cascading on

Rain curtains

That in your world

Never found a name

Between a blue and a red

Night bled

Gilgamesh

Will wake up

the next autumn

In the leaves that flew in periods…

Mahmoud Darwish

Waited too long

For Frisky Air

To build its nest

On his palms

Olive years burn

With what

Saba Arwah s…p…u…n

Questions

          loop, lament, and laugh

          inside

the white night

dying

for a black moon.

Labyrinths always have

doors in c—o—r—n—e—r—s

of lapis-lazuli.

Or perhaps visions will still

be stuck

in blue flood

seeping from footnotes!!!

END (Won First Prize in a contest of  Wordweavers – an online journal)