And Still

And people still die in horrible ways.

I mean, most death is, but I mean unexpected, unfair 

stolen lives ripped and slapped across the face 

with what the fuck, again?

Friday evening, sipping hours slow and soft reclined,

the phone rings hard intruding 4 o'clock alarm and eardrum spear.

A quickly muffled smile, a slow to continue, a when did it, 

Or does she know,  or how did it this time.

An evening pulled to crawling, aware and all familiar.

A gentle, seeping, nothing soaking heavy, wholly

Drenched and silent, mud quick covering the path behind

and forward.  One must move fast to dodge,

But should I?

This is what is and will always.

This is nothing special.

This will not be the last time I write this.

It may still move closer.