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.




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