This poem I am quite sure reflects the wish that it never happened. Many eyewitnesses discribed it as surreal like a movie.

In this poem I discribe the the trapped victims on the planes and in the towers as "flies". In the sense that the sickos saw them as subhuman, and all those "eyes" were trapped and helpless as they got swatted.

This is a tribute to all who lost their lives that day and in honor of those who saved lives. May we always remember that this was not a movie and never forget what hate can do.

 

It Wasn’t Stephen King, By Brian37

 

The orgasm

Of the abacus

Pious martyrs

Seek to shred flesh

 

Metal tubes

Without feathers

Soon to become

Righteous incinerators

 

The flies inside

With all those eyes

In futile effort

To avoid demise

 

Franticly dial

To those outside

The abacus count

Impending rise

 

Cracking voices

Tell of slashing

Tombs in audio

Of final moments

 

The coffee and tea

Offered to me

Stirred with venom

Made it grey

 

The snake head

The gargoyles claim

Is justified

To decapitate

 

The dominionists

They insist

Must obey

And acquiesce

 

Two onyx plumes

Are their warning

Blaspheme their dad

Or sully their soil

 

The fangs and rattles

And coiled spine

Inflict its toxin

2 more times

 

I wish it were

Imagination

A picture describing

John Mc Lane (note:Diehard)

 

I wish it were

That of Orwell

Of call letters(note: radio stations)

Spinning tall tales (note:War of the words  radio broadcast)

 

Four daggers were real

And did not retract(note:not a fake blade)

6 orbits elapsed

Since 8:46(note:First plane hit)

 

I did not wake

From a sleep

My retinas will burn

Until I fill my urn

 

No pyrotechnics

Nor rabid dog

Driverless motors

Or skitso resorts

 

The blooming white buds

Scatter the floor

The picture show “Crimson”

Staring Zealot’s Whore

 

I desperately want

It to be King

Or double O seven

Escaping a scene

 

Then I could

Return the movie

Forget the horrors

Of that day