Wednesday, June 8, 2011
It’s impossible to make meaning of it
When you’re reduced to the lowly status
Of untrustworthy collateral damage
And the old joys of life slip into sick hiatus.
The glee of the gravediggers seems objectionably obscene
And a gross distortion of the heartbreak of accidental death.
While the decisions of state make nothing like sense
And greedy perpetrators barely stop for breath.
There were friendships lost and good names spoiled,
All because of a hijack that careened into a crash,
Leaving more wounds than anyone will ever want to treat -
Various victims were violated, compacted like tins of trash.
So the months become years as dull despair destroys rare resolve,
Until there are no lingering leftovers of life on which to advance –
All because the bad and ugly chose to loot and steal and lie and cheat.
But why, pray tell, did the self-righteous good opt to pose and preen and prance?