the-midnight-range

[the-midnight-range]

Ode to a Rock Dove

My eyes graze, upward and over buildings. What word does the common bird sing to thee? If not a song, forlorn, damp, and free. Abstracted Dove, do you know that as you soar, you radiate from below? Thy plumage- purple, green, gray, and white, creates in your flock a bouquet? Feral, a pet- feral once again. Thou must feel our affection like holes in a silo of grain. You and I bird, we are certainly alike in our abjection in this century of the ape-like. Unloved and uncared, still fulfilled with duty in a world that no longer needs neither us nor our beauty. My eyes graze, upward and over buildings. Looking for a bird that lives like You and like Me.

[the-midnight-range]

Icarus

Icarian Child, born out of cinder and guile, what tragedy hath befallen thee? The sun hath dimmed and the stars shined out, Flourescent- electric light is all thou can see. Fly further, fly with might - Your father - the architect sings. But be it night or bright daylight, The fall, your destiny shall be. Icarian Child, with plastic wings - Dost thou wish to be free? Hath in your dreams thou be plagued of visions of a world that could be? Where thou were absent and absorbed - And in your dream was it untrue that your misplacedness, led you - To You? Icarian Child, look for thine sun and make your demise your own. If not thou find the might to flight Remember to dream once more. Icarian Child, poor Ophelia afloat awaits in her watery grave. Thine arrival shall bring her joy - So that dreamers may dream again.

[the-midnight-range]

Why Must It Be?

Why must it be,

That this wretched form of me

Was created nigh

To violence and apathy.

Why could it be,

That this wretched soul of me

Was molded in time

To woe and agony.

Why should it be,

That this wretched mind of me

Is consumed every night

With smoke and debris

Why is it true

That my being is a clue

As to the horrors

Of what man can do.

Umut Bürme, 2025

[the-midnight-range]

Boys

Are terribly good

At pretending

When things just

Really aren't right .

They will smile through

Eyes that hold sorrow

And pain and laugh

Till quietly out of sight .

Then given the chance

A crack will appear

And tears they will

Rise up and brim.

Sit softly and talk

Listen closely and see

There's room for your

Story with me.

But we need to drill the stereotypes in their head

So he can lead the next generation

Don't leave a room for him to think

But let him sink in his own world

Believing he can't cry

But lie

Look there's a way.

All men were boys once

Wide eyes, big dreams and a warm heart

All boys will be men someday

But that doesn't mean the boys are gone .

[the-midnight-range]

The Old East

I grow weary as each constellation passes by me one by one, I grow weary as I ride on and ride on. But it is all worth it, I think to myself, as I scale the Mount Nemrut. Atop there are no strangers, no friends, no enemies, or anyone that befalls neither category. I climb and climb, my knees aching with each step onward. Until at last, upon the summit I catch the sunrise. I climb the altar as Apollo’s gaze grows in brightness upon this flesh of mine. I hope to combust in fire and flame to atone for those I’ve seen become passers-by on this ancient soil. Yet the sun rises, and Apollo still gazes, alas no redemption nor flames arise. Despite the distance, the stench of death is still fresh on my nostrils and my hands still calloused and scarred. I step down from the altar and turn toward the statues of men who proclaimed themselves gods and I return my gaze downward.

Civilization, leveled. I journey back to the earth once again. And I make my way toward what once was hope. Along the roads I travel, I stumble upon humanity humbled by Gaia. Upon this mess, the modern world has failed to fulfill us. The great connections across vast distances provided by wire now is strewn across by the gale. All I can do is offer some water, and apologize. I keep riding, and as I do, the wind howls louder to mock me of our collective failure. I reach Göbeklitepe, and marvel at the pillars. As I marvel, I wonder; would the tears of parents give rise to such monuments or would it be the laughter once shared with children now gone. What ancient wisdom or emotion could strike someone’s heart to immortalize such sanctity, and what have we lost along the way that we now suffer as our monuments falter and fall? What new sins have we invented to bring about such catastrophe? As I take my leave, and continue this sleepless journey of mine; I hear upon the road someone murmur. Forty-three thousand dead. I can no longer tell the constellations apart from the occasional lightning bug, or still flickering light; or the campfires of the penitent onlookers. I know I’ve reached my destination when ruins climb atop each other and warp over my very beings. I know I’ve reached my destination, when the repugnant stench of rot greets me once again. Among the dust, concrete and blood I find myself a seat. A measly boulder such as myself. I plop myself atop and wait. Off to the side, I hear a mournful song being sung; across me a man sits with his hands on his knees. The dust tickles my nose, and I still can not acquaint myself with the smell. Over me, is the vast blue sky, no clouds; and the only shade I get is from a piece of rebar that hangs exposed over me. I hope it too collapses and ends this nightmare. I gaze upon the flattened city. Those who’ve proclaimed themselves keepers of the new world scramble in disorganization to search and rescue anyone who was not crushed, or succumbed to the elements by now. I see colors; the brown, the gray, the red – and in contrast – green. I look upon the brother who is fending off animals to preserve his kin until authorities can arrive. And I think to myself, this land does not belong to us, this world does not belong to us; all we can do is to wander and to wonder even upon the wake of disaster. The crow whose feathers have grown in volume on account of the winter does not see ruin but opportunity; the hungry wolf whose ribs I count to chase away boredom still descends from its den for the curiosity of the hundreds of fires lit. And as to us? We wail against destruction caused by our own hands, we mourn the years we lost to petty squabble; and when all is said and done and blood and bile fills our souls and homes? We sit by the fire, and tell stories; we comfort each other and share just a bit of water. I turn to the man across me: Pray tell, friend. What is your story?

[the-midnight-range]

The Devil and His Clarinet

T’was on the midnight range when the seal was broken on twilight hour. Tents and lights in blaze did appear and struck fear in my heart. In double time song was sung of the devil and his clarinet and little did I know this would be the doom of my soul. Fiddle in hand, I entered the menagerie of red velvet blossoms, the scent of sulfur and gunpowder filled my lungs and eyes. Around me were guests, clapping along the shows. I looked around only to find the freaks that nature produced. There men performed deeds only explainable through black magick. Their bodies contorted and twisted in ways I can not detail, some towered over me with their melted faces and crooked bones; yet I kept walking upon the cursed carnival of doom. ‘Till I ran into a tent in my stupor, and inside a dark woman; she smelled of the sea and looked wiser than I. “Sit” she commanded and showed me a seat. She spread a deck of cards and began to read: “The Fool is ye, hang by his foot, Clicking his castanets. The Tower’s a rising, can not be good, Beware The Devil and his clarinet” She sang these lines and jolted in sight to what the furies had shown her eyes, under that woman was not a human but a goat in fetal size. My feet took me out, out the tent and out the site. In panic I ran, ran and faltered; till I found myself in a ring asunder. In the middle a band, a banjo and a clarinet. The drummer drummed my feet did stomp and brought me through the dancing flame to a quartet now made five. My spurs clank in rhythm to the tunes as I tried to turn away from the ruse yet a hand kept pulling me back and beckoning my name. “Fiddle now, fiddle fast, Fiddle if ye wanna save your soul. Play nice to sway our hearts, Or be a pet to the Devil and his clarinet.” Horsetail upon copper I joined the tune, the horrid faces ‘round grew and grew. And beside my fiddle I begged and wailed like a violin in fear of all the violence.Their laughter screeched at the walls of my head ‘till silence befell the tents. I was dragged and mauled to what I assumed to be hell fire, yet upon awaking I was in the prairie under the Lord’s blue heavens. The deal was sealed for this fool I made of mine, that I saved my soul to live a lifetime. Yet when I still play the fiddle, I hear the devil and his clarinet.