torn limbs
too wrecked to reach
the little chance for life
in a bombed out womb of rubble
covered in shrapnel
dripping in suffering
[let the images explode your heart]
broken into pieces
(remember these?
into a RIDDLE:
a 140-spaced tweet
compared to a candy)
now a dust-bowl of skin and bones
almost nothing left (of Aleppo’s
last hospital)
but wounds and a loud cry
suffocated by our own
life pulses and throbbing fears of the unknown
“If I had a bowl of skittles”

The Middle

I can’t imagine what it’s like to flee my home as a refugee. Just a few sketched words:

Sand sifts,
brushes against the canvas tent
A small quavering
that barely replacesĀ the once
solid house
now crushed in bones under rubble
Joy. It breaks and cracks,
Five hundred miles in the past.
The wandering is one thing
But the wondering is hell.
There’s a Nowhere in the heart.
And the soul is a worn stone, ground
as sand shifts
brushing the quavering
canvas of
refugees that barely can place
their home
now crushed
buried under waiting.
Peace. It looks away.
And hope grows in withered form hereā€¦