Could it have been a dream?
Brought back by this wall of black granite
To blend with the falling mist.
Black to gray to black.
In stark silence that belies the violence implied
Of these thousands of young lives,
Of the ear shattering blasts
With streaks of light and sound
Across the sky
Flashes of white, green, brown
And, of course, red
Then sounds of a single voice
Cutting through the din
“Oh, Momma, Momma.”
Fading to blend with a crescendo
Of a blasting roar
Make it a dream.
Please, make it a dream.
And of course this time it was
Standing here beside the granite wall
But it wasn’t back then
For some it was a final scene
A final living nightmare far exceeding
Any childhood dream.
My fingers touch his name
Chiseled in the black unforgivable granite.