The gunshots stopped hours ago.
The fire alarm is silent now.
The sickly, angry florescent lights
shine on into the dark, cold spring night.
The Death Angel collected her winnings,
the souls to take to Charon and to Hades.
The bodies still, killed and killers,
blood innocent and blood profane
mix in the flat, grey carpets and tiles
and the well kept grass out front.
They all sleep together this night,
in silence and quiet, excruciating peace.
The wind from the high mountains
is silent in it’s passage through the town.
The tall grasses on the edge of suburbs
bow dumbly, like so many prayers of strangers.
Tears are shed, so much loss, so much waste.
The dead sleep, but the living dream.