Torn American Butterfly by James
After
the flames died to
ash and glass, blast-blackened
corridors showed the end.
They were gone,
fluent tongues stilled,
hopes for freedom killed.
Dead were they who had
given succor, their very best.
What was left is war torn, needing
heavenly repair, earthly rest.
Unseen fluttering near his corpse
and theirs: the forlorn migration
After.
Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.
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