Debris On A Cresent's Trail

I wrote you down
just outside of Sargodha
on a chariot of gold
disguised as rust and diesel.

You didn't last to station,
left a forgetful grip fluttering
and left me to flutter my way
across the climbs.

Up there, Indus waited
to guide us towards
the edge of heaven,
an Eden scorched by man
and torn to dust grey
rubble by a million years
wept in a heartbeat.

I wrote you, I know.
But I couldn't take you there.
A thousand hollow eyes
and staggering souls
would consume you,
erase you from my scribbled note
and my scratching mind.

This way at least, I'll have
the memory of release.