~

there is weeping
in the streets,
a cry heard on
the boulevard,
the place where
lovers meet;
no charge for this
performance,
for cover paid
can never save
the wounding
of this soul;
this act, no lore,
’tis their making...
become their theatre,
this act of war.
as arms outstretched,
awaiting hope
that never comes,
slowly die alone,
losing grip
on life
once clenched;
no more beating,
all lay bleeding
in the street
far below.
this place where
horror falls,
like darkness
'til their bodies,
one by one
are gathered up;
our heart in pieces,
their blood spilled
on the ground,
we lay flowers
here at home,
and on the hillsides
as we weep for you,
here across the sea,
as we watch
your fading light,
oh Paris, where
it's raining tears,
with you we,
the dawn await,  
the coming mourning.

~

*post script.

how is a poet to act, to think, to feel when there is such devastation as this?  we can only bleed in ink on page, as snippets of news, pictures, unedited video, all... paint a picture of horror, leaving behind brokenness and tears that will flow endlessly. oh Paris, we grieve for you... with you... over you!