The Memorial

Could it have been a dream?

Brought back by this wall of black granite

Towering above,

Stretching beyond

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

Ringing cries

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.



11:01 PM

Marietta, GA