Poetry

Meditation was futile. 
He turned his back 
from the green prayers. 
The state had made a mockery of his love. 
 
The words were not clear 
written on the periphery of pain. 
He fathered 
dust to dust, his light 
folded his trembling hands, 
lying on jaundiced bed. 
Syntax was rising. 
 
He stood alone amidst landmines 
malice for none, beast and history. 
The stones were falling from sky. 
The punished was partaking the blows, 
where he was 
others were absent.