Painted

Sometimes I get lost in the brush strokes,

the flowers dried, and crushed,

            the thrust so vivid,

            makes the canvas appear insipid

            and yet, caught I am

            staring,

 as if your face were hanging on the wall.

Aleppo

I don't know what to do,

with the pleas for help

                    still ringing,

Recorded voices 

                    Of the newly dead,

Because I can't help but want to reach for them,

But their voices are already 

        fading. 

How daring,

        To share your final testament,

As the bombs drop ever closer,

               Stealing away your personal confessions,

waves of force  drowning out

    All,               but praise to God.

And I hurt to wonder,

       which is more deafening,

The destruction we 

                 drop upon our neighbors,

Or our brothers' 

            silence to stop it.