Truth Heard in the Wind [Thought, not Spoken]: “He’s a song I sing to myself under silence and sirens.” A martyred soul meeting his reflection, splintered shards barefoot in the sand outside Tehran facing in the same direction: Sweating funerary mouths mourning shared misunderstanding, thirst opens their grave as jackals surround them. Awash in expression, two souls—the same face—fall in a gash in flesh’s passion whose hole consumes men, closing its eye at 3 AM swallowing silence, guarding heaven’s gate so slain angels can lay under paradise panting pain, cultivating their hanging garden. Share:ShareClick to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to share on Skype (Opens in new window)Click to share on Telegram (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) Related April 6, 2015June 23, 2015 Categories: Poetry