"911"
Parched throats breathe thick, acrid, plumes of
Bellowing, black, choking smoke and cry.
Tiny people jump to heaven and smash into the concrete below.
Sunny orange hues turn to rotting purple blues.
Fire alarm bells go off in my head.
Awoken for spells to death's living hells.
My guts swelled as I fell.
God has spoken. Glass was broken.
By Jonathan Billet
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