All the lives
that have flown away;
those precious eyes,
those bodies that pushed themselves into love,
the blood stained clothes
they sweated blood for,
and this crippled wreck
of strangled metal
and twisted guts;
a strange and desperate evolution
mocked constantly by drifting birds.
Who could have expected this?
On a day of sun and plastic food,
these fine hands,
minutes before burning,
had picked their way
with knives and forks
through clouds;
now, who points the finger?
What airline lifeline?
What God?
All this insistent movement,
this wish to fly,
the fear of standing
still,
and theses wingless people
scorched to death
in search of
the sun.
Keith Armstrong
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