This Hours' Honor

The bell tolls once for each new victim
Ironically, planes fly overhead; symbolically
A tattered flag gets carried away while
A dirge is being played for the dead.

Erected will be a memorial, the names of each
Set neatly, officially in granite laid
Yet another in a series stacked and black like dominos, though        
These 3,000 latest were not taken by bullet, or by blade.

Still, we shall honor them as victims of war, for
Is it not terror’s hand, that which makes death lists of all the others?
The thing most frightening is this dread of continuance
Making ghosts of children and fools of mothers.

Who with pointed finger to blame we ask?
Our neighbors of course, those whom we ignore.
As poisoned water will seek its own level
Mixed in with warning waves that break along the shore.

With misunderstanding we choose not to learn
Of reasons why we have the need to kill
The enemy that remains; the hunter, who longs
For the chase long after the kill; the ultimate thrill.

Our freedoms are bought at such high price
Which most of us no longer can afford; luxuries…
Put them on loan, we will pay tomorrow, for
We must have them now before we grow bored.

This hours' honor is brought to you by
One more commercial interruption; which
Fuels this country and flavors its taste,
As we swallow so easily spoonfuls of corruption.

I stand before this cold new monument
And listen to whispers of each name called.
I freeze in horror when I see the last entry,
“Dedicated to all who are served” by Ronald McDonald.