A Spirited Dust

Was it a calculated 
risk, when it was poetry, 

falling like rains 
on the parched lips 

of yellowing pages. 
Like the stones of a 

grey mountain, 
singing a hymn to blasts, 

pick pocketing the sun? 
I start reading the anatomy 

of violence, ever, never 
easy to understand. 

Lots of red blotches 
were spread on the tiny figures.