I turn the page.
There's the word in bold . . .
Obituary.
There was another shooting last night.
The words are about the people involved.
No need to read about the gunfire.
It's old news.
It's beside the point.
Instead, I read between the lines.
I see the different paths each victim
Took on that fateful night.
There's a sense of finality
In the details of lives
That are no longer with us.
We are all mortal
Even in our everyday activities --
Driving to the supermarket,
Walking the dog,
Crossing the street --
There is danger.
Life is something that is not concrete.
We are strapped to this world with
Nothing more than a thread.
We are fighting with ourselves every day
To keep our names off this page.
We conceal our ills from ourselves.
The internal struggle for survival urges on.
We fumble through life
Until it corrodes and
Our name appears in black and white.