It was after we placed the flowers upon the somber wooden frame, when the fatal deed was done and we’d slept in our rose-colored beds prone on the complacent floor, that we stood for something howling, something writhing in our minds, across our lawns as our children’s feet scuttled past the IED’s of cruelty. Dodging the flowers in bloom and painted of life, we waved our wary-worn hands, weeping to lift such pain of wounds that kept crashing, continued pummeling our shrugs, our ‘that’s life’, stumbling away from detonation. Muzzled worry and trouble, wedged risk in our voice, thus… we vanished. Too late, we’ve found our voice and stand tall and bold to say, ‘We’ll miss you’. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)