Ph: Death: We Are So Drawn Poem by Brian Johnston

We are so drawn to the wreckage of lives,
Monuments to lessons learned,
That will never make sense,
Some learned the hard way,
Others as easy as falling on knives,
Or just fools playing with razors,
Simple child's play with dire consequence.

Of course it's better if you're not the one,
Responsibility spurned,
Though you're gasping for air,
As night conquers day,
Wondering, when will the ambulance come?
The Monday morning appraisers
Write new bylines pretending they care.

But then just when you think it's all over,
It's your child's fate handed down,
In this morning's headline!
You ask, 'Did I pray? '
But you're no longer rolling in clover.
Beholders crave a strange beauty,
Brief lives cut again by a deadline.

This story is told again and again,
It is the talk of the town,
Wisdom of skyscrapers,
There's nothing to say,
No one complains exploitation is sin,
Keeps presses rolling sad duty…
That's just what it takes to sell papers!