John John

The night was rich in red.
The blood of John.

That night, when he was dead
The world, unbelieving, waited.
Waited until the blood had run out,
And there was no more John.

We cried.
We shook with horror.
We refused to believe or understand.
And then we took it in,
Then numbness took our mind over

But he was dead.
Forever and ever and ever.

And we were dead too.
We would never be young again.

Joe Postove