CONFLICT

The hands of stars polished diamonds on our backs made by angels from blood, they trampled on our backs as the golden oriole's breast covered the moon. We placed sleeping tablets on the night's tongue and learnt the language of fire-the night spoke in it's sleep, the names of those killed, angels left wings as they parachuted from graves. The war was like a wind blowing against bloody wrists near a cross that eventually reached the wings of a bird. Ocean waters like blood washing against lighthouse nails, spirits sailed on time's waters warning never to predict or prophesize their demise. Deserts exhaled when soldiers returned home, our shadows were distilled in a forest of moons. I returned to the soil, letting it fall through my scarred fingers, clouds pass through the eyes of the dead who passed through the eyes of an unknown intelligence filming itself using the universe as a camera.