Sound Travels
In the cold January air flame and smoke disappear
but the sound goes on forever.
The pistol crack; the victim’s gasp,
dead before his wide-eyed head smashes against the pavement;
the screams of the passers-by;
the shouting policemen holding them back;
the wailing ambulance;
the knock, apologetic, on the door;
the crying, desperate,
left without a husband and father;
the monotone of the priest;
the 12 clicking heels take the coffin;
the sobs of the veiled
and the final, definite scraping of soil,
thrown from shovel to grave.
The shot was still ringing out.
My Words, My World 
Reblogged this on Reflections and commented:
NOT the sounds of silence.
Wondrously dark and well written 🙂
Thank you Donna, I’m happy you enjoyed it. I wrote down a couple of lines with the idea of the various sounds created by the pistol shot some time last year and forgot about it. I found it again recently and this happy little ditty came out of it.