Once I looked into the hole
where hope used to be,
from my spirit to my mortal hull,
on September 11th, 2001,
I could hear the fear-sired cries
of the maimed and martyrized.
Then, through that
contentment-slaying day,
wrathful phrases—
alien as battlefields
before my being became a being—
flew from my tongue,
and this wrathfulness—
deadlier than a butcher's cleaver—
lacerated away love with hate.
Once I looked into the hole
where hope used to be,
I lamented
the twin metal-constructed mountains.
I filled urns with tears for each stranger
who was assassinated
by Lucifer-conceived hijackers.
Once I looked into the hole
where hope used to be,
I praised a platoon of police,
firefighters, paramedics
and construction workers,
Archangel-Michael-comparable heroes,
who were trying to liberate everyone
from crematoriums.
I placed prayers upon those
who were trying to sever
tragedy’s girders on the buried masses.
I realized,
despite the bereavement-filled rubble,
the brave made the vanquish
of numerous natives
and visitors appear victorious.
These saviors let evil know
that attackers will not defeat a need
for “Life, Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness.”
Once I looked at our Republic,
I saw respect remove a woeful wound.

Copyright 2012
by Bob McNeil