Bleached, like the city resting silently in the
scorched reflection of her watered gaze,
A girl, watches a man vomit up his life upon
The pavement. Broken.
Falling into a crater which was almost as fractured
As the moon.
It seemed possible within such a moment that the fine
Line forward was really one behind. Stretching
Like a whistle, towards a past that almost
Resembles something attainable.
Something to be changed unlike those last words
From the now corpse of which the girl,
As fragile as she felt, didn’t have the strength to listen to
- grasp at -
Like one singular memory longing to be one of the
Few that will actually be remembered.
Here, she attempted to write the water out of the ocean.
Her eyes brimming with saltwater flooding the
Ruins of her bombed cathedral,
Squirming like a child, newly born. Screaming as
It’s first act of Grace.
Looking down upon a body whose chest shall never again
Rise like a Phoenix from the ashes.
Their voices, ones that will never run towards her
Glowing red, in that same way she used to sprint towards
Her faith; remembering the day her father
- or more the ghost of him -
Had clutched angrily at her wrist as she attempted
To escape from the sound of screams, beaconing.
Unstoppable.
Like an accident ready to happen in slow motion.
All within a city mourning the hymns from the
Meny explosives, praying hopefully
That they never hit the ground. But instead
Just
Keep
Falling.
“Look” her father said.
She looked.
And all she could see was a God - Merciful -
beginning the tactful act of drowning….
All while catching their souls, as they run from the burning houses.
