a flock of sparrows

fitting into neither

Parochial hearts sing hymnals to their sky: dark and drawn

of childless days and the end of play, growing by numbers

ignoring the pain. Inspectorates of song edge out whispers

from dreaming  leaving shadowless streets barren

of their stories. Dislocation loiters, keen as paint

to draw a picture of it for you: Could you understand

its birdsong? Yet for all the roads leading to Rome,we’d

stumble to find, remote from our common origins,

a Blind pontiff: abridged yet bridgeless to inner closure:

cul de sac of nostalgic displacement. so words fill the void

into the hollow uprooting of sparrow trees  and exile.

fitting into neither

written in blue ink across the dying edges of seasons; that tranquil

place of nightmares to the East of a Middin’s conflict

where Barren sands lament the loss of their dunes and

the crumbling of the desert, Sparrows flock to counter

the narrative of Time with songs of their memoirs.

Even the moon gives up its crescent. The years designate

the hour of goodbyes and memories begin to erase

that  place They called Jerusalem.

Fitting into neither

The walk of miracles speaks to naked ground of its inner blue

embedded spaces of smokey lineage. Sparrow sheds words

to a poet’s soaring of lean Inward migrations.

A flock winging an elegant world leave to the falling

a different her into a field of divinities:

occupations and illuminations. With every line he writes.

Infinity spirals essences mouthed of their breathing:

Her earth groans to your footprint; bared to the sweet of skin

fitting into neither

A parable of feathers; journeys  of nights fallen to its knees

begging she drink the ink of his sins. sparrow lit and spartan

to the jagged glimpse of its frozen centre; Intimate narratives

of him shape her of minor miracles. Calliope, dancer

in the ornamental gardens of Archilleion

To spread her wings, she spreads

her dreams beneath your feet…

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