Waffle and Writings! for Thursday, May 1, 2008

Two Seven Five Two Plumes of smoke curl Grasping the air from Places and people, Streaming out From windows Cut open by a silver bird of death. Fire glows red through Banks of grey clouds Fog the buildings from view In evil’s shade Two Seven Five Two died. Twin buildings once reached to the sky Carrying hopes and dreams For many little people Moving at their own pace Through the day. Windows were cleaned In coffee bars and restaurants Chefs cooked meals Waiters served them Customers ate them... Sign in to see full entry.

The yard grows fuller by the day, by the week and by the month. A punching bag hangs from the fig tree; battered not by hands but by nature’s elements. The birds use it for a perch, flitting from the branches of the tree, to the bag where they sway a few moments, then flit down to the twisted remnants of several bed stands and some ripped mattresses and other assorted articles. No grasses or flower beds are visible in this miniature city. Rats run through the labyrinths of the massed mess.... Sign in to see full entry.