It is the worry

It is the worry

The hurly burly

And damage of life

The way it bites

Through the toughest skin.

It might be a gunshot

And nine lives lost.

How many more.

Before

You spit out

The bullets

And melt them down.

Or the death of a child

In a land fill

Whilst digging

For something

To sell

Anything to feed

A family.

A young mother

Standing at a bus stop

When a drunk

Steals a truck

And while she talks

On the phone

To her little boy home alone

A mad man

Decides

With diminishing

Returns on responsibility

To make her road kill.

A natural disaster,

Tsunami,

Volcanic eruption

Even an earthquake,

Starvation and drought,

Just random events

And there is another

Wasted generation.

So many people

Herded together,

Living and dying

Fighting wars

With no natural laws

In houses once holy.

The slaughter

Of innocence.

Children,

Treated as cattle.

Did you

Ever hear

A fallen man.

His last scream done

When all he has left

To look forward to

Is silence.

And so he cries

With little more

Than a whisper,

Nary a whimper,

A back of

The throat rattle

As his last breath dies.

This is no natural

Disaster

Or just

One of those things.

But if more than

Random and

Preternaturally

Orchestrated

Who are slaves

To a rhythm

That makes

The world sing

Who are the dancers

And who pulls the strings.