The boy sits
with a cup of water.
The cup is his,
the water is a lake
his hands are cold
like winter nests
In the tallest trees
The birds have left long ago
Leaving only the frozen sticks
He calls his fingers
He checks the glass,
And it is assuredly still
He is assuredly still
The day will come
When he has to refill the cup
When the lake runs dry
He will chase errant rain clouds
Through the vast chambers
echoing caves, the byzantine pathways
He longs for the days
When his feet will
wake the dust
of this old house
But for now
He is assuredly still
For he must be
The day will come
When the gods will stomp
And snarl
And play their games
And shake the branches
Till there are tiny holes in his walls
They will blow razor wind storms
Across the waters surface
Birthing waves
too big for the boy to hold
A wake of swords
Slashing at the cup
For the water is a lake
And it is not his
They will send teeth
Sharp teeth loud teeth
Winged teeth
To eat his chest open
And he cannot use his hands
To shield the rooms
Where he has hidden
Every quiet page
The water will spill
The water will always spill
When it gets loud
His hands will shake
And the water will spill
With fear, with rage
His hands will shake
The world
Will shake
And the water will spill
Outside the rain
Is fighting to get in
But he cannot get up
To open the doors
The vultures have pecked
The doorknobs away
So the boy chases the rain
through each room
Each blind corridor
The only thing showing him the way
Is the smell of wet tar, petrichor
And the music of tin roofs
Echoing in the too-quiet night
Where have the birds flown off too
Their song used to warm him
Where is the voice of his mother
Where is the candle fire
the wooden bookends,
And the stories they sang to him
Where is the smell of coffee
Not for him, cos he's too young
But he likes to witness
The way the dark and light
Mix together to make a color
That perfectly means home
Where is the sweet smoke
The eating of light
The hard made soft
The rainy sundays
Spent reading skin
From page to page
Where are the words of god
They printed on thin paper
For the ink stains his hands
Too deeply
And they must be still
The water will spill
And he has to tell god
But he has searched
Through all these empty rooms
The boy chases god through each room
Each blind corridor
The only thing showing him the way
Is the sound of death, greed, fear
And the smell of cheap incense
But all he finds
Are half-made statues
Wearing his name
Their words are empty
Their cups are empty
They sing with ears of dirt
And mud
They trace the words on the page
with hearts of Nafs
instead of fingers and eyes
These birds sing empty songs
To empty nests
Thinking they have
Stopped the sky from falling
But the boy has a cup
And the water is going to spill
But he, is assuredly still
