The Fall

I saw a photograph of a young man,

Jumping from the
Burning floors of the tower.

He was within the air’s reach, within the
Soft comfort of nothingness and
Artless ignorance, suspended between
Fire and the cold arms of death.

I saw a photograph of a young man,

Mourning in grief and breathing in the smoke of sadness.

And as I looked at severed families,

Infused with the anguish of brokenness and

Shaken with unadulterated fear, I realised that

The memories of terror don’t
Die with embers and ashes and
The remains of the fire.
The memories of a tragedy don’t

Dissolve in whimpers and tears

And hoarse cries for justice.

These memories live in the
Darkest corners of human consciousness, in
Manifestations of trepidation and apprehension.
They live in incomplete family photos on the
Mantlepiece and in wilting flowers on stone-cold graves.

These memories live in the minds of parents, who keep their
Children close until the wee hours of the night, until
The sky changes from pitch black to the
Eerie colours of twilight.

I saw a photograph of a young man,

Jumping from the
Burning floors of the tower.

And in that moment, it was as if life existed only in
The echoes of a severely ravaged past.

falling man

In memory of 9/11

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