(no subject)

[apiphile]

far from damascus (attempt 1)

the wind has ripped my breath
across cities and desert lands
from green prisons to the clean
open sterility traversed
by singing sun-scorched bands
of men whose eyes are undaunted
by the constraint of sunday rest;
turning my prayer to the sands
to the particles of silica
a thousand flies dead upon the floor
of some vanished ocean;
my silhouette falls, i understand,
beneath these robust sea-skies
upon a tide of dry white stars;
hear this hoarse plea to the god
i'm not on good terms with
as i raise each scoured hand;
my lord, make me anything
anything
anything other
than that which i am