On the Hands of America

Touch my soul for I will die. As people screaming pass me by.
The course of death so none remain. The ones who died, the ones to blame.
As I lie upon the wasted floor. A cloud of grey begins to soar.
The walls of the building start to fall. But the fear of dying standing tall.
Through the sirens, through the screams. Through all the smoke, no life is seen.
The sky runs black and rapes the air. Running smoke, though crowds it tears.
Running though a river of tearing grey. Like water my life soon drains away.
The face of the faithful die alone. My God has left me, no where shown.
I grab my heart and close my eyes. The soul of the faithful never dies.
Through the wreck, the dying toll. As the stinging wind soon rests my soul.

Copyright 2001 Joseph Michael Egan