My Short Stories

American Requiem.


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Who is there to mourn?

Land of opportunity has become a dustbowl.

The spirit has dried up.

The people are all screwed.

The mourners have all gone to their  homes.

The symphony has ceased.

Children suffer.

Old folk die.

A bang, a wimper, a silent holocaust of mind and soul and spirit.

And we are left to wonder.

The bright light has failed.

The jet engine ceased

A lifeless image

Of a once great nation

Tasered, poisoned;

Wreaked by storm and quake, flood and fire.

There is no rhyme; there is no reason,

None request a burial,

They have not forsaken the dead.

Nor have they found the living.