Row, row, row your boat

gently down the stream that is

the dream of life while the sky falls;

fragments of blue pigment

shaped like interlocking puzzle pieces

crashing into skyscrapers

bleeding billows of charcoal-gray smoke

as their skeletal frames break apart

and scatter,

plunging like daggers one-hundred stories

to the ground,

splitting the sidewalks and the streets down

the middle;

broken plates of glass

digging into the senseless abdomen

of the Earth

as they mirror the vacancy that hangs,

stretched like a mourning shroud,

behind the flimsy remains

of the tissue-paper sky.