She painted with artistic flair,
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He sculpted nudes from moist, soft clay.
And neither could imagine there
could be a place for each to share,
beyond this all-consuming day.
He rode the bus, she took the train,
the daily jaunt through London town.
The muggy heat might spell more rain.
Each morning bird sang its refrain.
This day much like the last each found.
But with no warning came the shock,
the sudden blast in waves of flame.
The deaf'ning roar, the pitch and rock,
as terror gripped each beating clock
now all-a-board in Allah's name.
She wore a yellow dress to work.
The bloodstains soaked the cotton print.
He wore a cap like every clerk.
In flames it flew off, with a jerk
through scorched remains of dust and lint.
Four wicked fools set off one plan
in hopes Mohammed would be proud.
Misguided tools from Pakistan,
torpedoes aimed at Western man,
destroyed the ships, which held each crowd.
He never thought of church one bit.
She hated all that preachy stuff.
Thus, in their lives no god could fit.
How would He? come to think of it.
"Imagine," sang it well enough.
But who could know on this July,
the motives in Death's consequence?
Eternity just blinked an eye
as casualties of Satan's lie
all face the truth at great expense.