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Whispers and Dust MAG
Ash chokes New York City.
Terror grips the very air.
The streets, empty and lifeless,
The buildings, like huge, foreboding silhouettes.
The silence is ominous and unnerving,
When only seconds ago,
The streets were filled with screams.
But now there are only distant sirens to break the stillness.
And now, we are nothing more than whispers and dust.
Hot snow rains from a broken sky,
The sun fights a losing battle,
The world has turned to black and white.
The rubble stands as fearsome ghosts,
As sickening reminders of what once was.
A singed half of what could have been an important document
Floats gently to the burning ground,
To die in peace.
And somewhere, far off, heavy footsteps fall,
But we are only whispers and dust.
No children play in the streets today,
People do not walk to work.
On this day the world stopped.
Death makes his presence known,
But then, he is really no different from the rest of us,
We all have a job to do.
Just, not on this day.
Suffering speaks gently to the windless morning,
Because on this day we are nothing but whispers and dust.
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