Sketched with shrapnel, the fragments of his face
are cut with orange and red.
Secrets seep out through skin to tell the truth of this world,
where old conflicts have led.
All life has exploded in the city of light
and he must find a way to get the feeling out,
but before words are found, before he can write,
impressions drift, as smoke from old chimney stacks
beside miles of twisted railway tracks.
Searching for ways to tell the horror of it all,
he is lost among concrete corridors,
where unformed words founder and stall.
His expressions slip, adrift in a dreadful discontent,
and drip with his blood down cracks in the pavement.
(Paris, November 13th, 2015)