THE FINE PRINT

Another blast in another corner of the country
A few more dead and few more left to die
Another deadline delayed and another late night
Some things are the way nothing should be
And yet, nothing is the way everything should be
No tears shed and no sympathy gained
It’s just a toll after all
It’s another number game
Another race to the top
No blood spilt, here, there or anywhere
For after all, just casualties named in black and white
No faces, just bodies
And sometimes, just body parts
To be stared at in shock and sorrow
At the breakfast table the morning after
In the end, the dead are dead
And another deadline waits to be met