lahore

the single stem salvaged
grew at a slight slant,
the clay pot held a cup
of wet dirt from their drifting garden,
lime juice was the last aroma,
nostalgic of a home abandoned

each sweltering hour
burned permanently into memory,
trails adjacent, serving
tires and feet and tears alike
only blood to follow in succession,
the train was nothing but prayers

with the last flower in hand
nerves at the brim of rigidity
and his faith in contempt,
he lives for a land beyond
lahore