By Ahmed Latif
In the shadow of the Jerusalem Tulip,
Every melody is broken and inadequate.
Every scar is a triumph over a nightmare.
And every dream is given a proper burial.
We stumble into the library to die on the shelves.
When a dream loses its air
It plummets and is buried in a garden of stars.
It is pulled and yanked raw from the pit of a soul,
Like birthing a Leviathan on dry land.
A million trees paint their leaves indigo in mourning.
The truth is a stranger to such a sight and in such a land.
This semblance of sanity and this vestige of humanity
Sacrificed as a dedication to the dearly departed dream.
Our pleasant thunderstorm lights the night and dies,
While dreaming of the morning dew.
Light a candle in the library,
One that will grow weak and tender.