This is my last year teaching, here, at Columbine.
I’ll be leaving Colorado and these bad memories far behind..
The kids come into homeroom and each year it’s the same.
The seat where Eric Harris sat is one that’s never claimed.

I guess, as High School massacres rank, others , since, were worse.
We suffer notoriety because we were the first.
The names and faces of the dead still haunt me in my sleep.
I had the charge to keep them safe; a charge I failed to keep.

Eric was intelligent; in a different place and time,
He might have found a better use for his creative mind.
But he was often bullied; I had  failed to intervene.
Some say he thirsted for revenge both brutal and obscene.

On April twentieth of Ninety nine, he and Dylan came here late.
Eric warned one friend to flee; to stay was a mistake.
I heard the first shots fired and saw bodies hit the floor.
They headed for the library.  I hid and locked the door.

I confess I was a coward; I was no hero born to save
Those young and beautiful children destined for an early grave.
I hid, as many others did, and cringed at every blast,
As youthful dreams were shattered and this day became their last..


In the end they died as suicides. Their crude bombs had failed to blow.
Had their plot been a complete success- we’d all have died, I know.
Instead I’ve lived with my regrets, my shame and my despair;
haunted always by my guilt and Eric’s empty chair.