April skies, covert layers in pale blue.
She’s drawn. Weight of mass graves shackled by her tongue.
She stretches, digs into cerulean
Scratches past dressed skin, ninety eight springless blue.
Brown blood fingernails, air with air spread tasteless on Deir-ez-zor sand shifting, burning heaps of bones
Her eyes, deny their hands, stained with Armenian blood scrubbing a black sky never to pale blue…