Looking at the blank slate faces,
their eyes just holes in white ash,
I feel so helpless, caught

in these bouts of intense emotions,
dwarfing the power of mt. st. helens.
I fell out of shock, tumbled into sorrow
and now have crawled out into rage,
all from a vat of molten tears.

They are burnished red, fiery white hot and
indigo blue, these rivers that sizzle down
as they scar the surface of my soul.

And I know it's wrong, can't be right,
this purple rage that consumes me,
shaking me to my very core, but

my heart rages for the innocence lost
when men decided to strap 747's to
their bodies, their eyes closed tight and fists
clenched inexorably around the throat of fate.

And my mind breaks as I contemplate those left
without choices, hand in hand, cartwheeling
dark against the terrible blue sky, leaving

those left behind to wear dusty faces and slack jaws,
a haunted look replacing the carefree one
that used to grace it, and I wonder

will the heavens open up and wash it all away,
the good and the bad, leaving me to wallow
in my anguished state of sorrow?

I want those blessed waters to ease over
my body, cool down the lava dripping from
my pours, and let healing tears fall freely,
without rancour, without prejudice,

and without end.  I long for that state
that existed eons ago last tuesday,
when beirut wasn't in our backyard and
freedom wasn't a dirty word used against us,

and I wonder as I look at the tracks of
my tears, do angels cry?

 (c) Trish Shields
091901