The Sandy Road to Damascus
The sand billowed wildly, the dunes of Damascus, the dust of a city.
An arid desolate existence thrives; frozen, an obscene pity.
Voices of numbers reaches Eire,
A gripping yet slipping tone, breaths in my virtual ears.
The sand she billows would be soft, deserving not of fear.
Devoted, willing to see for the blind,
A production of an intentional design.
Blocked by humorous intervention,
By a ruling line of fools, with selfish intention,
Make her smooth sands grainy, stony and gritty,
The brood in that city, from Eire arouses my helpless pity.
One from a place of mystery, brings me pleasure,
In the city of mental blisters, which should be crowns,
Her sands make steps pleasant, the hot grains, now cool to trust.
Hypnotising features, with pure sand; making the path sound,
Faceless words, make easy ground for us,
While we walk the sandy road to Damascus.
