Wreckage

He kept returning
to the wreckage,
not because he liked it
but because it was
so strangely peaceful there.

The worst had happened
and life had gone on,
the breeze still nagged
at the tatters hanging
from the charred wood,
the grass was growing
where the metal and
plastic had melted,
and each morning
the sun rose on the dead,
who couldn’t leave
until the living had heard
their stories.

fromagreenhill.com