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The news came,
Swift and silent,
Burning powerfully like a flame,
Almost violent.

Hearts bled,
As all wait with held breaths,
Tears were shed,
Some were resigned to lay their wreaths.

In the dark of Saturday night,
While the haze of the city form afresh,
I felt that pang of fright,
Wondering if MH 370 did crash.

I think of claustrophobia and fire,
Of gushing water and debris,
Of a fuel and water pyre,
I think of the ghost goodbye kisses.

I think of their families,
Their hearts unsettled and morose,
Most especially,
When they think of the worst.

I think of those I love and cherish,
How it could have happened to me,
The possibility of how easily one could perish,
How fragile life could be.

Flipping through the pages,
A conspiracy so deep.
Crowded airports and watery cages,
Haunt my dreams and sleep.

And so as a day passes us by,
We pray and we cope,
That MH 370 would still fly,
A steadfast, miraculous hope.

This poem is Copyright © Crimsonflame