I have written over 4,000 poems and 1,000 songs and yet I am still searching for that perfect poem or song which eludes me.
Nothing will ever heal the loss of so many in such a tragic way
How In God's name did our defenses become so lame?
New Ruins At York.
\\\||||////|||||\\\\\|||||/////|||||\\\\\ This massive, charred remnant is haunting, hate broke it now it sits memorializing monstrous mayhem, many miles from where it fell, I touch a piece of it and visualize thousands more just like it, crushed into a vast crater; twin gods toppled. A phoenix of steel and flesh cannibalized their lives, floors and ceilings falling in a claptrap, claptrap clap clapclap as if terror was applauding the grasp of the earth swallowed whole, the mighty and the meek, cooks and bankers, cooked and banked in debris janitors and stockbrokers, swept away and broken, with a wail heard round the world, leaving a flesh canyon, of several generations, melted into a common grave. DNA and carbon blended, stained on steel, stone and glass, a pit where once stood breathtaking heights of power. yet the ruins remained, dotted with remains persisting, in dagger like points of unbelievable pain. what once gleamed bled those skilled killed, ancient Jericho revisited, work began immediately, to remove, bulldoze and scrape the scar of a nations spirit crushed, keening, in need of counseling, a wearisome demolition, around careful corpse removal, each intelligent soul bound, in tombs with crossbeam braces, reduced to venison splayed and broiled. Bright were those rising monoliths, cash cows full of the milk of honey, resplendent floors of fine carpet, fine art, and elegant work-spaces of oak and glass, once renowned landmarks that now mar the land, great the weeping of the multitudes, high the abundance of rubble, Hate catapulted a killing wound in the shoulder of its mammoth girth, high and low the innocent perished, days of fear, hand fed began, red alerts, orange alerts, "What the hell is a lert??" Death also took many brave rescuers away, their stations in life left deserted places empty helmets, vacant chairs, even the commanders perished, in a raw wound in a big apple, where worms feasted for weeks. How this place lay desolate, surrounded by funerary wreaths. a mass grave still open, but emptied, intermingled with landfills, broken into mounds, where at one time small specks of flesh, were whole bodies, living, breathing, laughing on that Indian summer day that turned savage, and oh the other spoils claimed, diamonds, gold, currency, rare antiques, all melted into embers, dismembered, trappings of the wealthy becoming trapped, into a state of worthlessness forevermore. The sickly sweet stench of death and water heated to boiling roasted flesh and tens of thousands of computers, it floated over the city, for days, in hot streams over grey stone, it drifted out over the harbors, like a shroud of burial for the occupants of eternity, vaporized into statistics, no one will ever no one must ever forget. My descriptions are hard to stomach but that was all that remained we must pray that we never endure this kind of travesty on U.S. soiled agaIn
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III