for Ashraf Fayadh
but what of god?
the magi and the zealots pause
shocked to hear that word
those three letters
which when reversed makes curs of both
and both swell their breast
for there is no answer
neither through the magic of the vessel
or the certain rejection of the air
but god is not the subject here
how quiet the space of the cell
walled in by the cries of others
and how solid these walls
built with bricks of pride
did you really think yourself free
to declare words are great
and douse them in the petrol of tears
but what of the revelation
that drove you to recite
without he prompt of angels
pressing down on your windpipe
but what of the hypocrisy of god?
that on the one hand weeps for a forlorn poet
and on the other imprisons them into the mass
that speaks through click-bait
that openly lies for supposedly the best of reasons
and then condemns for the basest of motives
you speak of bread
but perhaps not the cheap white wine
clutched stems held in manicured fingers
the chatter rising as you draw near
your words forgotten
more sooner than you can bare
but you are already dead
and though some may flinch in compassion
at each lash
will you dare again speak truth?
and where is god?
I can see him
in the anger and the baseness of your image
and the rising and the cadence of your words
in the passion of your sentence
but he will not be there in the full stop of you
did you not know?
where is god?