for ma land : palestina

[k-i-d-rap]

a hungery eye runs free, for once, he's live-
under the falsehood of beauty's sight
the salt mines mind a fault in product of time.
Falling over one another trying to spy the sprawling
light as it tumbled from the dead man's final
stand to soil from oil on canvas to sanded cries.

He was so thirsty, so so thirsty was he.

A brush stroke of hope couldn't hold him-
bones exposed, soul and corroded limbs
all blown across the moss his shadow thinned.
Holding his poster close- dreams come true,
maybe? "No! No! No!" screamed those few
who knew him and his beautiful truth-
as the sandled shooter reloaded to show example,
and the sands flew into the open wounds of man's soul.
Art hurts- under the gray blisters and scarred terms
the paint is all that's left of tomorrow's Darfur

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