That Strange September Day
I was young- nearly twenty-
the day innocence became ill.
I remember the funeral well
that ninth month.
As the sunlight shattered another night,
I awoke in a dim lit room, silenced
by a strange sunrise
as it splayed across the earth,
then darkened in the most
somber and eeriest gloom.
Ashes were scattered over the sea,
beyond the hills,
into the valleys,
hurdling ocean waves,
drifting across isles,
then settling into unknown graves.
The thin-lipped mistress
shed no tears from faraway shores,
her saw-toothed, jagged edges
cutting deep the wagging tongues,
swaggering into the Eagle's beak.
Her colorless face, with black eyes
bored into souls with a craven heart,
stone cold and set- cast deeper
than the wounded stars and bleeding stripes,
flying at half mast.
We sat huddled, wrapped in gray shawls,
glum and sullen- watching
the smoke curling upward toward the angels
who were stepping out of a mystical fog
dove wings spread wide, reaching down
to lift up all who had fallen.
Copyright © Dana Young | Year Posted 2016
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