In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore
Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word
In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.
With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames
But they are gone and you are gone
And never will I hear
Your soft and **** gentle voice
Or hold your body near
Late at night near Trinity
among the weathered stones
Do I hear the weeping of lost souls
-Or is it just the wind 's low moan?
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore
Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word
In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.
With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames
But they are gone and you are gone
And never will I hear
Your soft and **** gentle voice
Or hold your body near
Late at night near Trinity
among the weathered stones
Do I hear the weeping of lost souls
-Or is it just the wind 's low moan?
A poem of 9-11
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