9-11-01

It was September 11, 2001....  I awoke much like any other day. I hit the snooze button way too many times and I was running late. I hit the shower, got dressed, and said good-morning to the girls (my teens, who by now were putting on their faces). Not really paying much attention to my daughter's radio, I did managed to hear from one of them.....'Dad! dija hear what just hhappened'. Surely she must have got it mixed up a bit, was all I could think....then as life and death poured out of the television across from where I sat, in a stupor that felt like my thoughts had slowed to a snail's pace, I slowly acknowledged she was right.                       '9-11-01'                       Whilst I slept the world ended,                       Across the golden waves of grain.                       There would be no dream to wake me from,                       nor dismiss the horror the hate, the pain.                       Evil struck the cowards blow,                       Prayed upon the innocent.                       Devoured the young and the old,                       No remorse or mercy spent.                       Whilst I slept the world ended,                       For them it was no dream.                       No escape from evil, the horror,                       The wailing wind unseen.                       Stolen from them, their world is gone,                       Their lives, their love, their dreams.                       So now you ask who is responsible,                       Why, and what does all this mean?.                       Does one or two satisfy your hunger,                       Does three or four or more?                       Perhaps not, nor ever should,                       Will peace replace, will war?                       Until We all have rid the world,                       of evil, and the suffering shared.                       From our dreams we'll never wake,                       where none of us are scared.                       Unbridled evil laps the blood,                       Spilt by war and death.                       Some wounds will never heal again,                       Until its safe to dream,                       or breath again next breath.                       -Darmok 11/2/01 Written November 15th, 2001 © on Nov 27 2001 04:55 AM PST, Darmok    18 • 0 • 9