MH17: In Memorial

The picture: the smile, white teeth, thumbs up,
Smartphone messages of everything's all right.
Seeing loved ones, new places, of sealing deals,
The Captain's voice and the crew's
Stemming flutters in your heart.

Two rebels at play:
Your move, my move
Pawn, Knight, Bishop.
Your move, my move
Queen, Rook, Check.

Tail wind pushes metal fast above the clouds,
Films watched, games played, babies fed, babies settled,
Children cry, are we there yet?
Tea, coffee, then drowsing into Neverland,
Stuttered REM and Through the Looking Glass dreams.

Two rebels at play:
Your move, my move
King, knight, Pawn.
Your move, my move
Bishop, Rook, Check.
Mate.

MH17: In Memorial

You're falling, falling; no, you wake up it's a dream,
Spurred by the turbulence knocking hello.
No problem, you've been there before,
A dozen times or more; it's nothing, you see?
Hands held, armrests gripped. It's fine. It's always fine.

Two rebels at play:
Your move. Our move?
Shoot to kill.
Your move. Our move.
Take aim, fire.

298 people never arrived.
298 lives destroyed.
298 people who'll never breathe again.
298 people cast as angels in the sky.
Countless more cast as mourners, forever marked by Death.

And the rebels?
It was your move. Our move?
Denials will haunt you.
Now you move. We move?
Cease hiding the truth.