Mosaicked wounds

This was the way it ended: not with fire,
But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
Toward the rubble-heads, the hollow men's republic.
A vastness aches to be out
Like a falcon stoop towards the ground
For the first time in its life.
Then, days spin across my oceans
Sinking tiny bottles of time
Lived, Loved, and Buried. 
Adieu! I said to them, 
For there is a long travel ahead.
I gently push them down.
For it is not a time to ponder, 
The falcon must not hit the ground, 
There is yet so much flying to do, 
There is yet so much dying to see. 
Let the tinted glasses, stack together
In beloved red, black and green.
They must not let go of their corks
Of Sight, Sound, Touch they carry.
These sealed-away wounds, cling better than the mosaicked walls,
Must not be painted into my common breath.
Until my ocean thickens to ink and acid rain,
Until the bottles drift, drift and shatter,
Until every shard becomes a lidless eye,
And every eye a grave.

Ohona Anjum writes, rhymes, and studies English literature.