Wednesday, June 7, 2023

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October 22, 2009 

James Weaver

Horsemen rode an azure tinctured morning sky,
Thrumming decibels on chosen trips to Hell, who
Even in death
accomplished at
stupendous cost
shrieked vengeance on their unknown prey, as
twin tined flaming unstrong towers fell.


After the last bulletins of the day arc’d across its
blunted consciousness, a thrilled nation shrank
within its dark collective self to hope the image
fade ere dawn confirm the awful ashen blight
heaped graffiti sketched against
an emptied smoke wracked sky.


And this the toll we’ll pay in burden
extracted from ourselves
a vacuum’s left when
vindication is surfeited
the currency we’re paid for widened selves in a
shortened world: the fire in which we burn until
contrition blunts revenge, enables hope.

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