That night.
In rage.
Mid June of twenty eleven.
The moon at its lowest.

I searched for the lost pieces
in empty carafes;
neglecting the thousands
crushed by the hands of cruelty
and the sound of ruthless whips.

In dream,
grapes feud with pomegranate seeds.
Saints hung on a wall.

Under a media storm.
Unwelcome.
I wake up against the morning sky.

The kindest of us all slain.
The victim of ink and paper.
His unspoken mind.

I buried myself
in asylum, in the swamp of
sympathy notes.

Bloody cliché.
Each word bleats its
desire in silence.

And when, when
will the trees flower?
And the smiles glow and the little fish waltz?
Will we ever soak in the lake
where flesh and blood glitter in freedom?

– S
Toronto – March 4, 2012