The future prevailed, our lives de-railed,
The sturm and drang of it, no siren sang of it.
And everything that came before and after
was no disaster and certainly
couldn't plaster the deep, deep, wound
that left us sitting raw and stinging.
With ears ringing, we couldn't hear the song
designed to cheer, because it couldn't be composed.
It does not exist, so we continue to try to resist the iron fist
that everyone knows, can slap up against your grief
and give no small relief, to the constant happy clap-clapping,
of the ones who don't know the feeling.
The consistent reeling, while the cracks
of the existential whip continue to trip us.
But there it is in black and white,
no imminent warning to herald the morning,
the mourning that will never cease.
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