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 maid 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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