I join a group of calm, bewildered,
meandering, eerie, sleepwalkers
stumbling away from the foul
wretched place. We turn
and proceed uptown
through the canyons of woe.
It is a slow staggering march out of hell,
a long, languid, lugubrious
snake of sadness. We have aged
past old in that caldera
created of spite and hate.
We did not live through it,
we just did not die. I see it
in the faces and footfalls of all
who move away from the burning fury
of the still-standing tower. Their feet
do not bounce with a sprightly young gait,
nor do they hurry with horror-inspired haste
but they scuff along like an old farmer
leaving his barn at dusk. They step with
the shuffle of the aged, their faces
absent challenge, absent awe.