Manhattan morning singed,
sincerely mourning twins;
twinging; gingerly lingering
in remembering ringing
smoke and suffering and silence and
screaming, suffocated in newly created catacombs.
so today, I combed carefully through the news and somehow come to:
The Poetry of Islamic Terrorists;
beautiful and colorful and moving;
I move too,
confused, consumed; wrought thoughts of
People breathing verse; immersed in the fluorescent pulse and flush of brilliant imagery, free from curling clouds, muddy blood in New York’s thudding skyline; rhymes designed without the grime, crime, time; tomb—tuning out the looming doom, boom; plumes blooming from open wounds.
I wonder if they knew, what they flew into,
through views tattooed on their eyelids;
did they think death poetic?