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They day after it was all over
and the buildings had turned to funeral mounds
littered among giants who seemed bent in prayer,
there was a dust that could not be done away with.
The white, chalky residue covered every surface,
and the more that was swept away, the more came in,
as if some invisible tide had brought it back
with a whisper of "We will not be forgotten."
Staring at the powder, I wondered
just what it was made of.
I wondered how many bodies,
turned into dust,
were now plastered to my windows,
my doors,
every available surface.
I wondered how anyone could deserve it;
to be spread so paper-thin, drawn so taut
as to cover the entirety of my city.
People spoke of it in hushed tones
whispering that they were still a part of the city,
that they were still with us like this.
They made it sound like poetry
whispered through the lips of a dying man
but I would not accept that.
These people's deaths; they were not poetic.
They were bloody and awful and painful.
And while I may not have known them,
I do know that they deserve more
than some after-thought residue
stuck to my windshield.
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