One life. One skull. One bone. One moment. Human remains… nothing to you, another collateral shard, political gain, fragment of meaningless life spiraling underground beneath the weight of thousands. Raise thy fetid memorial, bury the unburied. Appearances… soiled callousness, numb sanctimony of one. What if it were two or twenty? Would the dark machines pause? Bow their heads, bent in mechanical prayer? Rewind the tape, see a flash, a passport, a bomb, a gun, a skull, a bone, a soul sealed deep down, down, down, dead, again. Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman 'No building halt' at Ground Zero
(The Weaver's Song)