O Martin

though my pink face declines me,
you and I both know the roots
that define me,
colors not just red,
but hues truly bled,
just to refine me;
and tonight, dear God,
another nation of our sisters
and brothers, are felled by
indescribable tragedy;
we stop short, unhinged
by the magnitude
of what has come to be:
tens of thousands of souls,
now gone upon vapid shoals,
too many to count,
and each one without
a loved one to set them to rest;
this is not the way that
good people find their test,
taken, in the middle of the night,
not so much as a rustle
in the way of a fight, a struggle
to survive, to be alive, to have
just one chance to endure;
taken, in a stroke,
in the blink of an eye,
not even long enough
to say good-bye;
this night, olde friend,
please help each one across,
and help also all those
who have suffered such a loss.

January 13, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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