The blood spattered streets paint the fire trucks red as they speed by following screams for help that will never arrive.
Tears,
from citizens, loved ones, from children waiting cluelessly for their father's return,
paint the early morning sky blue. The sky shines bright in contrast to dark, suffocating shadows of smoke that haunt the city streets.
On that day memories and buildings alike collapse in front of white ghostly faces.
People come to rest, motionless in a city that never sleeps.

But tomorrow,
there is no red blood or gore
no blue tears or sorrow
no pale white faces stricken with fear,
because when the smoke clears
and America's lungs can finally take a breathe,
all that's left is a flag standing alone and swaying freely,
possessing the same three colors,
that had haunted a nation just a day before,
but meaning so much more,
red, white and blue.