Letters

There comes a time within some lives,

When sparrows fall

and voices fail,

And all that is,

or ever was,

Holds not one single claim

to what will be.

For twenty-six,

and those who cherished them,

that day has come.

To steal the promise

of a morrow they will never see.

It was but a school.

A place for learning nursery rhymes.

A springboard to the finer things.

A haven for the callow of our towns.

With violent rage

meant mostly for the innocent

and young,

A monster tore from them

the joy of youth and life

That is the birthright of the child.

Bereft of all

that makes the living what they are,

The small now lie in clumps

upon a schoolhouse floor,

And share the space with those

who used themselves as shields.

This “Troubadour of Hell”

left in his wake

a field of carnage so grotesque,

That Death himself

looked on the scene,

and wept.

That morning’s light

has cast a shadow

on the nation’s soul.

Again,

a half-staff zephyr

tugs the hem of “Glory’s” skirt,

To flap and flutter

in our hearts and minds.

And what of those

who live the nightmare of their life?

A dream

from which they cannot wake,

The bonds

of which they cannot loose.

Their hearts are broken so,

There is nowhere the pieces to contain.

I think the time has also come

For us

to put the mirror

To the nostrils of “The Dream.”

To see if it is truly dead

as well.

Must we be always heirs

to madness and despair?

It is the sentiment of all

that this should cease,

Yet “Glamis” murders sleep anew,

And platitudes abound

where empathy should reign.

I offer nothing but my tears to those

who have more than they need,

And prayers,

for they have not near enough

to keep them.

David A. Egan

East Hampton