Here is one of the first things I wrote that I was really proud of.
Broken dreams and screaming cerebration
dismantle my convictions of yesteryear.
Spectres of stalwart foundations whisper illusions
from across the chasm of history.
crushed under the soles of boots,
as indomitable as a Macedonian phalanx
but its soil shifts surely as a routed charge.
Sealed in the timeworn mountains
is the blood of invaders
feeding nutrients to violet blooms.
Cracked creaking fortress walls
are the exposed strata
of remains from millennia of foreign occupations.
Nights illuminated only by stars labour,
Orion’s scowl and the night’s highway
lure hearts to the hearths of faraway home.
The pale pin light hewn sky
is the accomplice to self-examination.
Crippled will, worn away from
continuously crashing waves of resistance,
force even the strongest to weep,
The perceptions of conquerors may change,
but those mountains stay the same.