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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Wednesday, 15 May 2013


It’s just another tragedy.
Not first, not last.  I know
Its algorithmic frequency;
A back page tale of woe.

With other lives, and other grief,
All bones in a mass grave
Of stolen years.  Prodigious thief
Who cares not for the brave.

The birds should stop.  The sky should fall.
Yet planets turn as though
The world sees nothing changed at all
By how that deal did go.

Is it a joke?  If so, it’s poor.
Cruel Bard, please change the plot.
I am not laughing anymore
(But you care not a jot).

And this will pass as age old pain
Will also pass and fade.
Not noted Queen, but rather rain
That falls on our parade.