9. 11

From New York and to Tora Bora
Livid Past gnaws a corner stone,
Burned in effigy ashes auras,
Sharps a tongue just to feel its bones.

Blades are airborne, severed tendons.
Metal flows down corroding veins.
Death is pointless for drafts are random,
Cast their lot in with pavement strains.

Blue berets of the sky tip towers,
Saturate air with smoke and soot,
Breaking news can’t be more devoured
Breaking hearts with a void to moot.

Streets of pain with the rain of flour,
Cooked in dancing east, western grieves,
Alcoranic words lose its power
When the book’s often leafed by thieves.

Days of braveness gray hair and armors,
Digging’s gentle, out of the crud.
Meet your virgins, sin-thirsty karma,
 Drink, desire, this cry and blood.

Send your angel, the King of Heaven,
With a sword and all-seeing eyes
Every year on the Day Eleventh
When a heart on its pain drip-dries.

From New York and to Tora Bora
Skies are stale and their clouds in rust.
Deep in lungs I can feel the aura
Inching up, blending love and dust.
 
10 September 2010