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. 

via Wikimedia Commons

via Wikimedia Commons

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.

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