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My throat, full
of shadows and
the memory of time (time’s memory)

wrapped in stained glass;
window that tells the story
in colours.

Red is the blood,
blue is the sky of dusk, and
violet is the snow
of a bloody night in Algiers.

I take a hit of pop rocks as a train cracks by; my eyes bleed grey.

Remembering those nights; how
we kept the moon’s silver secret;
drinking in amber, and smoke, and rose

the odour of sanctity
blossoms from the bodies
of saints strewn between

the white buildings
rising from
the sea.

I blink through violet snow and the platform becomes Casbah’s labyrinth.

Posted for dVerse Open Link Night no. 46 at www.dversepoets.com