That day, there were no fatal wounds,
No fading pulses.
No final calls for mothers,
No "Quick, we're losing him."
In the weeks that followed, no funeral processions,
No wreaths and no mourning.
No widows and no wills.
But there was death alright.
The Grim Reaper stood in empty doorways,
Sought retreat in boarded-up windows.
Gathered in men's eyes and remained,
Chipped away at families until they were torn apart.
Hope was dust and to dust it returned.
Ashes ripped through old work shirts strewn over bedroom chairs.
Make no mistake, there was death alright.
Death to an ideology,
Death to a hometown,
Death with no inquest.