After a time the road hides behind errant thoughts
an oasis of purpose beyond the skyline
just past the formless landscape in which I am caught
anxious sand etching the mind where they are confined
somewhere a destination waits for my return
decades away, or two hundred twelve miles by the sign.

Though the same vowels and numbers and stories were taught
the language we speak will never again align
casualties to the war of innocence still fought
despite knowing that both sides had long since resigned.
In the ashes of conflict, fragmented, I yearn
to take all those hardships and render them benign.