Like a stealth missile from an unexpected source,
bad news decimates life.
My friend's youngest daughter:
Perhaps the darkest word in language: Cancer.
In her early 30's,
a young lady with a helping heart,
always doing for others,
while tyrants consume
gourmet food
good people
every day,
strut their wealth
for the world to marvel
or despise.
Psalmic dimensions here—
David cries out why the wicked
thrive.
Life is not fair, we cry out.
But sometimes the weather’s fair,
we go to a fair,
pay a fare to relish fare,
which sometimes is very good
and sometimes fair.
And life can be truly fair
or just fair
for others, sometimes us.
Is there any comfort there?
Originally published in Communicator's League