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Eleventh Hour
November 5, 2009
At the dawn of the eleventh hour,
The sky is red from the glow of fires
And the air is clogged with smoke.
At the dawn of the eleventh hour,
The future is suddenly thrown off-balance
And plans and dreams teeter on the brink of destruction
At the dawn of the eleventh hour,
Instead of sirens and women screaming,
All that can be heard is one girl's broken sobs.
She dreads the final deathblow-
She dreads her heart shattering like shards of glass-
She dreads the deceptively soft words-
"I don't love you anymore."
© Nicole B., Newcastle, WA
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