As the crumble of quartz rises to summits, <br />and the silver sword of certainty <br />is melted in the alchemist stew, <br />the whirlwind will swallow our Babel. <br /> <br />And we, soldiers home from war⎯ <br />hear the cacophony of our every brutality <br />alive and dead in rocks and tissue. <br /> <br />In the faded fog of sun, <br />we cast and chisel the lore <br />of stubborn memory⎯ <br /> <br />still, tremble like a rat <br />caught in the cobra’s glare.<br /><br />Leo Briones<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kismet-10/
