Bastards.
What’s the point?
What had those innocents done to hurt you?
Why choose them?
Why throw their families into turmoil and sadness?
The blood, the pain, the anguish.
Questions people ask that
Only the bombers can answer,
Provoking fear in men’s hearts.
People turn and shout to God:
Why have you done this?
Why did you let this happen?
Hospitals suffer under the burden
Of maimed, injured, dead.
And buried under London’s streets
Lie the victims of man’s misguided nature
And selfish actions.
The charred wreckage of a bus,
So often the subject of complaints and anger,
Remains still and silent in the street,
Now the sole object of respect and the
Focus of emotions.
Flowers pile up outside the station
And faces,
Red with blood,
Red with tears,
Wander aimlessly.

Jesus wept
When he saw the violence on the streets of London,
And wondered when we would learn.