The Fallen

In the Fallen there are no movements of Time
Only impressions on the ground
A state of being without beginning
A state of non-being with no end

A tank rumbles into the Square

Cloaked in its dagger of blood
Pointing at the Fallen milling around
Who pay no attention to its machinations

Gun turret whirls about

Like a T’ai Chi Master’s arm
“Waving Hands Like Clouds”
No one takes cover as the machine gun chi
Reels out like silk
Leaving only impressions on the ground