By Ahmed Latif
This poem is dedicated to, and written with the help of, Rahman Ismail.
The Ole Tavern lies lit beyond barren hills.
Life doesn’t taste the same without as many ills.
Weaving gold into language, the goldsmith led us astray.
A trinket in an angel’s hand is still an object of clay.
The flesh beats the drum to the tunes of time.
Never see innocence if you’re obsessed with crime.
Roots unto stone as a river unto the sea.
A home isn’t home if you must flee.
Onto our frigid souls, the ice is climbing.
Life and death, it’s all a matter of timing.
On the poisoned branch where the flock is perched
There are no saints, only the besmirched.
They burned our hopes, used our dreams for fodder.
Hearts don’t need to speak in order to stutter.
Lost in the language of rugged rocky shores.
A sunset signed by tomorrow implores.
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