3 A.M.

Ghosts of the Holocaust hover over the earth.
Chemical gas curls around the forgotten footprints left by Jesus
On Syria’s soil where fleeing refugees thread through
A narrow span of time, homeless targets in death’s hourglass.
The archeology of murder always digs up a witness.

Sirens scream. From the alley the echoing rounds
Of automatic weapons bullet through bodies blasted
Against an operational text written by the chess hand
Of tyrants. When conscience unravels in the wind,
Ash settles around the soul. Light flickers dims, snuffs out

The last syllables of sanity suffocating under the rubble
With a human fingerprint registered in the patent office
Of the maker whose drone armies fly like summer gnats
Around the eyes blind to beauty. The wandering Tiresias
Stumbles from Delphi with oracles dripping from pores

Sizzling on the altar fires with what lies ahead when Truth
Explodes into night rain falling on a city ignited
By the hounds of suicide bombers devouring life with teeth
Pulling on the fuse lines timed for the end. Furnace fires of flesh
Boil in the mirrored memory of Hiroshima evaporating the last drop

Of water from the sea of creation. All language is void, unformed
In the chaos of spoken howls silenced by thunder voiced
By the dark lightning from a Mount Olympus where the gods of war
In the shape of man now blow across the plain in dust – dissolving urns
As gravity pulls apart the shaded shadows of reason. It is finished.