21/365 2/30 Wail of the Homs Survivors

We grieve with cupped hands
and mouths that will not close
except to swallow.
There is no dignity in the numbness of shock,
no reassurance in trembling.
We know our names,
but it is clear
we are something other than ourselves.
We claw away at what is left of assumptions,
the only fertile soil worth digging,
allow delusion to quiet the night sky
while it can.

There are no proper burials
in war zones.
We fill makeshift  morgues
and back alley hospitals.
There are bulldozers and mass graves
about which we can not speak.
Huddled in basements
too little light to betray our tears
too few tears
to betray our dehydration

We await the inevitable
any moment
overwhelmed and overrun
we will go down fighting.
We will pass this torch along,
speak the names of the dead
with dry tongues
pray that ours will be remembered
that these bitter seeds will one day grow
that beauty will be found here again
that we have not breathed this dust
in vain