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When avoiding stones that threatened to tear streams of red
into the brown sands of my feet;
I didn't know the shores of Brighton would take me
to a man tucked away in the trembling sheet of Acton.

His smile turned winter into a lie summer used to believe,
melted the hardest honey
and poured it into vessels of mine who no longer needed blood.
Everything in me was a yellow that buzzed in tongues of sweet.

Syria is a coma that rests in his eyes.
Caskets are screams buried in brain matter.
Scars are tattoos that hate themselves.
He is laughing through active shells
and all the stars are listening.

Night holds him like the mother he cannot see,
hugs him like sisters he cannot touch,
he is laughing at the sky his brothers do not know.
Syria cannot hear
somewhere in its heart is the taste of honey.

We are vibrating in the yellow songs that spill from him.

War is a burn that stretches his smiling lips.
He is laughing through inactive shells
and fear is a shadow that is afraid of him.

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