Smoke spirals four hundred miles away.
I smell death through the television.
No skills to medicate,
no strong arms nor
a stronger heart
to attack the carnage.
I draw.
I am an artist.
It is all I can do.
It will never be enough.

I make yellow lines
for souls ascending.
Not enough.
Not fast enough.
With enough color,
can someone be saved?
The colors flow from my chalked fingers.
More, more.
Faster, faster.
The smoke rises.
I draw.   

What more can I do?
I draw.  Huge sweeping strokes.
Time later to cry.
I draw.  I use both hands.
I am manic --- how fast
can I draw?
Transfer the horror
in colored chalks
on familiar paper,
I draw.  Chalk dust covers me.
I scream and choke.
I draw.  The dust of the dead covers the dead.
I believe.  I disbelieve.
Every muscle aches.
Adrenaline flows.

I draw.
No hero, I.