This could go one of two ways. My first attempt at poetry for about ten years, and I try to do a sestina. Go figure. This is based on September 11th. I’ve tried to weave in other historical events which took place on the day as well as the 9/11 attacks. Hard to believe such a defining moment was twelve years ago today. Dedicated to all those who lost their lives and suffered on September 11, 2001 and afterwards.
The enemy has met its death
The brave heart tells the scribe, “Mark the day
Note it down- the eleventh
When at this mighty hour
We raised our swords high
And victory is mine”.
The ursuper said, “This land is mine.”
All that lives is death
And the dead pile high
They still recall this day
Centuries on. They know the hour
A shiver runs through them on the eleventh.
They mark it in their diary. The eleventh.
Riches, wonder, were once mine.
All gone before the hour.
Oh how they wish untimely death
On those who stole the day
Let them suffer from on high
Orders come. That man up high
Says, begin the end by the eleventh.
Make it their last ever day
Because the world must be mine.
You cannot escape the kind of death
That follows you by the hour.
You do not know the day nor the hour
And yet you know, as the drugs keep you high
You will be the last to suffer this death.
Medicine advances on the eleventh
The privilege is all mine
You whisper, on your last day.
She thinks, such an important day.
But why? The plane leaves in an hour
But it must be more than that, this feeling of mine
As we climb up, up and up, oh so high
The towers loom on the eleventh
And here it is now. Here is death.
Does it fade, all that day, because we live? Our heads high
Some do mark the hour. The shadow of the eleventh.
You whisper “I love what’s mine.” And wish for a better death.