An orange sky,
An empty space,
A yellow alert.
A missing face.
A day returns;
So little done.
A dusty pit
Where memories run.
What have we now
But a landfill grave.
No more funerals
For the brave.
A tourist’s spot -
Trains rattle in.
Politicos fight…
No one wins.
All tucked away
In our memory box.
Locked real tight
Like a virus pox.
We wonder when
Terrorists will return.
Hidden fears,
Our soul burns.
Images suppressed,
The monster roars.
What isn’t acknowledged
Beats down our doors.
(c)
2007 Leona M Seufert