I stroll the sidewalk, cautious care
Eyeing shapes I dare not meet
Run my hands through sweat-slicked hair
The air alive with smold’ring meat
And who-knows-what, and sewer mist
That rises round my tattered boots
My city sans civilite
My culture torn up by the roots
A breeze comes through, with ash alight
The specks, they dot my moistened eyes
The tower torches pierce the night
Silent beacons, blood-red skies.
I slip inside my darkened door
And let it out, the relieved sigh
I fall asleep in silent wonder:
Another day I did not die!
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: July 4th, 2025 09:47
- Comment from author about the poem: A poem about my experiences during the World Trade Center attacks and subsequent evacuation from lower Manhattan that day.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments1
A tragic event with so many tragic consequences beyond the deaths there. Ignorance, incompetence, favoritism, inaction and haste. Wars, more deaths, misunderstandings, greed, religious beliefs blinded not only by smoke but all.
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