Fatal Catapult

Some days I wonder why
Life is so unfair.
Why tragedy hits few,
So severely, while only
Nudging the others
Softly.

And on some others
When I hear that a distant
Relative rammed his bike into a truck
A funeral procession in
The house opposite mine with its cries
An acquaintance loses a parent,

I am forced to see that
Death is unfair too.
That Death narrows his eyes worse
Than Satan does, to
Pick and choose his next playmates—no,
Not the ones he lifts with Himself,
But the ones that remain behind and I—
I wonder if I live in some bubble.

Where the blood bounces off its soapy surface
Where the screams are muffled
By noiseproof lullaby walls
As I drift off to sleep
Blind to suffering.
When people in my third
Or fourth social circle
Friends of close friends, legends
I do not follow
Creatures I have only once made eye contact with
On to the other side
While I switch TV channels on my indifferent couch, and whine
Of my puny troubles,
That the domestic help hadn’t arrived, or the
Wi-fi was a pain,
Or I couldn’t find my pair of jeans, as if
All of it were happening not
In the same World that I inhabit
As if I were immune to
Hate-crime, as if I was
Vaccinated against power, as if

I possessed the Elixir
That could kill Death
And on days like these,
I wonder
If Death is simply taking its
Sweet time to pull back the catapult
As hard as it can
Aiming
To destroy, juicy
And well; waiting
For everything I love
To assume the right positions
Until it is time to
Let go.

 

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