Occasionally, life reminds us the basis of violence,
pure disruption of the plan, the style, the formula.
The best laid gardens of mice and men...
I’ll be damned if it ain’t a season of murder,
whether it be my fruited plants aborted via pale design,
or a careless robin in the morning road
thumping his last thought against the
undercarriage,
or a whole town in Syria swamped in fear and blood and semi auto reports.
People are breaking the seals of angels.
What to do.
Push forward and reference history’s perspective.
Know where and when you are
and rely upon the whispers of the dead,
for they speak only of why.
And we can but reply.
Statements in science and soldiery succor,
given doubts and dreams, we slumber
only to flash into the waking action.
Prostrate then Plan. Darn and Sew.
The layers of Life fractal away into the distance,
in patterns understood and beguiling.
What can we do but react,
and choose anew.
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