[The Victim]

Lives were changed without purpose or reason;
paths were altered, like the collision of seasons.
In cold blood, fingers traced mortal wounds;
my family is gone, and there is no hope this soul.

Survivor's guilt is the understatement of my life.
I've been alone for three long, wakeful nights.
And each morning as the sun breaches the horizon:
I wonder what makes me so special as to keep alive, when
all I've done with my time is cast it to the wind;
when the only real accomplishments are small in comparison
to the lives that were taken from my heart;
the family that I had loved;
the family that I'd yet to start.
So what is there to do but sit and mourn my dead?
I've tried to sleep, but their voices fill my head.
I'll try to eat, but I know it's all in vain;
it's only a matter of time before he returns to end my name.

So I sit and flip through photographs held in place by plastic,
travelling back to the past as if time was melted; elastic.
I sit up, late at night, before a fire, coaxing the return of my dead.
I cry aloud, but there is no one left to hear what is said.