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New Ruins At York.

Updated on November 1, 2009

New Ruins At York.

©-MFB III

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This charred remnant

is haunting, hate broke it,


now it sits memorializing

monstrous mayhem,


many miles from where it fell,

I touch it and visualize


thousands more just like it,

crushed into a vast crater;


twin gods toppled.



A phoenix of steel and flesh


cannibalized their might,


floors and ceilings falling in a


claptrap, claptrap clap clapclap


terror applauding, as the grasp


of the earth swallowed whole,


the mighty and the meek,


cooks and bankers,


cooked and banked in debris


janitors and stockbrokers,


swept away and broken,


with a wail heard round the world,


leaving a flesh canyon,


of several generations,


melted into a common grave.

DNA and carbon blended,


stained on steel, stone and glass,


a pit where once stood


breathtaking heights of power.


yet the ruins remained,

 

dotted with remains


persisting, in dagger like

 

points of unbelievable pain.


what once gleamed, bled, those skilled killed,


ancient Jericho revisited, work began immediately,


to remove, bulldoze and scrape the scar of


a nations spirit crushed, keening,


in need of counseling,


a wearisome demolition,


around careful corpse removal,


each once intelligent one bound,


in tombs with crossbeam braces,


reduced to venison splayed and broiled.



Bright were those rising monoliths,


cash cows full of the milk of honey,


resplendent floors of fine carpet, fine art,


and elegant work-spaces of oak and glass,


once renowned landmarks that now mar the land,


great the weeping of the multitudes,


high the abundance of rubble,


Hate catapulted a killing wound


in the shoulder of its mammoth girth,


high and low the innocent perished,


days of fear hand fed began,


red alerts, orange alerts,


"What the hell is a lert??"


Death also took many brave rescuers away,


their stations in life deserted places


empty helmets, vacant chairs,


even the commanders perished,


in a raw wound in a big apple,


where worms feasted for weeks.



How this place lay desolate,


surrounded by funerary wreaths.


a mass grave still open, but emptied,


intermingled with landfills,


broken into mounds, where at one time


small specks of flesh, were whole bodies,


living, breathing, laughing on that


Indian summer day that turned savage,


and oh the other spoils claimed,


diamonds, gold, currency, rare antiques,


all melted into embers, dismembered,


trappings of the wealthy becoming trapped,


into a state of worthlessness forevermore.



The sickly sweet stench of death


and water heated to boiling


roasted flesh and tens

of thousands of computers,


it floated over the city, for days,


in hot streams over grey stone,


it drifted out over the harbors,


like a shroud of burial


for the occupants of eternity,


vaporized into statistics,


no one will ever forget.



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