Bombs and bullets blasting
crowding streets with panicked screams.
They grope for safety
but their hands clasp falling flesh instead.
Worlds away a flag is placed upon a face
to somehow remark remorse and offer condolence.
I, too, veil the flag upon my figure,
hoping it might resonate a stance of unity
and offer solace from this distant empathy.
I bend amiss, confused and broken.
I want to run and aid, but my leaking breast cements a stay.
My heart bleeds, voice bleats, and hands fold-
praying mercy far away.
From these ashes beauty will arise, but how? When?
Should the gate be locked and security preserved? Will a bolted door keep the people secure? Will it shut them in to fear, decaying far more than crushed bones?
Oh weaver of this fraying tapestry come mend; lend insight into providence, protection, and preservation for a remnant.