Road to Mercy
Martyrs on both sides,
the gently falling snows of Kashmir
fluttering in the thin Himalayan air;
here, in the alley of gods,
where prayer flags shudder violently
brilliant colors affixed like bayonets
catch wispy clouds in the fingers
of opposing artillery regiments
and ancillary disquisitions are unfurled
in the noisy whine of grinding metal
unceasing number two pencils squeaking
over glaciers advancing like standardized tests.
I hear the bedlam calls in sheets
thrown over dusty furniture, ghost like
the years passing in semesters, in fallen leaves,
in little hits, your drug of choice,
the empty arroyo of entertainment,
the misapplied adventure of failed experiment,
flood waters washing faith,
leaving the residue of hope like fragments of glory;
in some angel’s embrace, all androgynous,
nous and nimbus casting shadows on alley walls,
saints in their postures, children at their prayers,
beggars on the road to mercy.
