Foreign fighters flock
to the tune of a billion terrors.
The instruments, though digital,
still function as pre-medieval.
Sledge hammers do not erase
seven millennia of stone history
so much as make virtual icons
of jackass perpetrators.
We down play perpetuation
as armies trek their annual
migrations across capital capitols.
All those domed spaces
seem to need the toll of bells
as they gleam under star fall.
We go strewn as shrapnel
and broken seashells
under the constant trickle
of time, the infinite ripple.
All pools at tidal edge.
Now you see the next combatant
lose all his downy feathers.
His hands no longer useful
for letters. Language lacks
both permanence and perfection
no matter which prophet speaks.
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