What’s come of this, our day? Feels like a pale remembrance as if we've not slept since or our eyes never fully opened, living near death, over and over, never realizing what we've done. The dead walk by our closed doors just as they did before. Maybe years from now someone will open them and see there’s no one there, open the cupboards and gaze at the ghost’s of a bare boned affection that move about in the living dust, in the echoes of our dancing within the last of our days, even if there’s nothing worth remembering or somehow it all got misplaced, perhaps tucked away for a rainy day, a keepsake for tomorrow that never came… or never was. Walk with heads held high. Honor all the love that’s been taken away by your own hand and all those you were meant to touch, or should have smiled upon and embraced, for soon all this will be gone. © 2010 by mark prime World Food Programme ~ 911 ~ More 9/11 poetry ...
(The Weaver's Song)