The Falling Man.

Angels on the black breeze
eased the way down

flames licking past
through falling shards

howls echoed in silence:

grey silence
that held all hearts poised

filled the void that was once called home.

Symphonies captured the strokes
of
every
moment

the staccato pluck

paused for no-one

strings pulled
every
tear

choked
voices.

Bricks and mortar
strewn across
the plateau
of my ignited being

as sanity simmered to death
long before
the flesh

wept with each
cinematic thought

alone
yet
surrounded by the falling man:

the ghost of hope burning brightly
amidst the guilt

madness made immortal
unforgiving

relentless and eternal.

© 2007 Michael J. Earnshaw