Portent


Go down, this was not supposed to, desperate

clawing to survive, wrecked, altered, forever grieved lives.

 Calipee crescendos of despair, reverberating,

brought down towers of Babel believing in fairy tales.

Melted girders bent into shoelace knots,

crushed, tossed and blown dreams, bodies.

Do the dead know who killed them?

Do they remember who gave them their last kisses?

Crusades a thousand years old, resurrected, rejuvenated, implemented.

Searchers for diamonds among the bone ashes.

Tears long dried, streaming again in a Dead Man’s Float.

Satoru

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