Syria

The moon was buried in an unmarked sky wearing my face, soldiers trained ghosts not haunt those whose identity's had been displaced. Moving through villages winter seemed to lose its sense of self, tasting the cold it's shaking hands held the dead. As soldiers advanced the night walked backwards with holes in its boots, those children saved parachuted through cavities. The day called for commitment, measurement, for the ascent of ideals; and of transfiguration. I heard hungry trees near the desert talking about becoming ladders to the clouds to taste the rain, the desert spoke of raising insurgent sandmen to ride horses to prise the moon from the teeth of the wolf; two lots of blood, dust and sand, ideologies intermingled strand by strand. I was held by an image of a map of this land in the glass of heavens door falling through space, its trajectory corresponds with ours as we move beyond solace.