Punctured Lungs

The lungs of London were punctured today,
A metropolis struggling now for breath, gasping
As the acrid smell of sad news fills its airways
To cast its black spectre of smoke under doors,
Through multicultural neighbourhoods, stunned
Communities reaching out with bottled water,
Blankets, toys, prayers and shocked disbelief.

The muffled alarm bells have been silenced.
Questions lay unanswered in the pools of grief
Flooding empty halls and children’s bedrooms.
Playgrounds emptied, laughter all but cancelled
For the foreseeable future, in respect of the dead.
I can only turn and stare at the clear blue day
A clear blue day that for some would never arrive.

Here the air feels good in my lungs, gratefully
Accepted, far enough away, not having drifted
This far, not on the sombre airwaves connecting
And redistributing their grim suffering from afar.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe some more.
My lungs are unaffected, my soul much less so.
A cloud passes overhead and cries a single tear.



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