I heard the shots,
The cracks in the wind,
Approaching thuds and slugs,
Sounds of manmade thunder,

I felt the shrapnel pierce my lungs,
Iron colliding with rib and flesh,
White-hot and dire,
Exit-wound pending,

I felt the pavement on my face,
With my body bag colleagues,
Overseen by a man of ill intent,
Frigid eyes behind a pump action,

But I did not feel any fear,
Because it was on a silver screen,
A report of another tragedy,
On the world’s own streets,
On Plymouth’s own streets.

Comments
  1. tara caribou says:

    Excellent piece! Very well done.

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