Within unending horror, flyers return

Within unending horror, flyers return

Written words on sand

Look like hollow faces

Howling at the sky and

Seep through the ages.

Butterflies drawn out from the garden

Are onto the ocean,

Their little fragile wings

Battling with the winds;

Dots turn into dots…

Histories are scribbled,

Covered by the froth,

Range of killing travels in the air

With engagements that disease the flyers;

Naïve world, with knives in their eyes,

Saw in their ears,

Takes the inks from the rains,

And laments on the beach

It is writing, and writing.

Different stories in the same way

Pretend to end for good on the shore,

But flyers do not return as insects.

31 October 2014