
Sand Dreams
Ives Wittman
A fatalistic drum.
A new hand
is known.
Memory flashes,
As you secure the perimeter
with the rush of battle
cunning
in revenge and self-discipline extreme,
a divine agenda
wrapped in
human aims where
strength and loyalty
for danger seeking warriors,
a master soldier and Mariner
true their speed in deserts of humidity,
bleak winds of sand, the passion runs.
How rugged mountain callous roads
harden a soul in splintered remnants
aflame for other spirited
beloved brothers
know well the breach of betrayal
of killing rage for freedom's.
Praise the taste of grit.
Burning sun tell of a child's cheek
against a mother breast.
The rhythmic patterns of primordial dimensions, shutter in pools.
To hear the silence still,
she atones with indifference everywhere.
Flashes collapse in barren valleys
of the liminal sky,
sorrows, fog
the fields and enemy wills
A death to die in the trench
of a never ending womb.
Like the Falcon with long pointed wings
and spearheaded dives on placid scaffolds,
we ring our agile eyes of an arsenal
of wicked demise of the divinity infinity,
A raptor's vision.
She prays with language,
the battles we blunder towards immortality,
the pools of blood and bodies
living in black and white hunger.
A silver flask drinks to soothe a parched throat,
A map case of life you never fully leave.
Reclaiming unlived life and its savoring,
lingering taste, metallic blood,
its own waking,
dreaming clouds of deeply trenched mud.
While complacency kills the blood that drenches
the skin of black rear guards emerging
from red horizons lifted by shadows,
dropping from fingers,
an illusion drowning in dead men
at gates of courage
from birth to tomb.
Their souls languish in law sees
for honor arouses the power to command
men of great soul nature indomitable.
They love fiercely untold.

