The concourse,
Bursts with breakfasting people,
Unaware that fate has marked them.
Death is visiting here today.
The offices,
Clatter with clamourous commerce,
Ignorant of the futility of the day.
Trading will soon cease.
The weather,
Is gloriously sunny and bright,
And from its realm, a bolt of fire rains.
Cutting the morning astray.
The windows,
Of every building for miles from here,
Imploded, shattered, like scattered lives.
The sound borne on metal wings.
The lives,
Of those who lost and stayed,
Of those who won and left, to remember anew.
Inexorable in their disarray.
The memories,
Shriek from pictures and testimony,
The faces of the departed, frozen forever, hopeful.
The cares of a death not deserved.
And the passing,
Years that cannot asuage these tears,
This hot and burning anger and hate.
From above in September fire.
© M.H.
September
Fire
Marc's poetry and musings 