Eye of the Storm

There is a trail of broken people making bad choices leading up to the stoop where I sit. The people, the poor decisions, they swirl around and around, and here I am, with him in my arms, resting his head on a keyboard. 

“It’s okay. I’m here. I’m sorry. Don’t be afraid.” I coo as I hold him close. 
But it’s not okay. The damage has been done and I am here alone, speaking to ears that don’t listen. I can’t undo it. And neither can anyone else along this trail of poor choices and flawed people. 

I can’t say that I caused this mess, nor did I have any part in it, but I am reeling from it’s devastation. Positively beaten and defeated, I can’t eek a surrender, I can only ask with my eyes one question, “Why?” 

I wish I had answers on why this storm occurred and why so few along the way did the “right thing.” And I understand that there can be moral ambiguity at times, but in this case, there was nothing to speculate. 

You people are broken. You people did the wrong thing. And now here I am. Holding, consoling a cadaver.  

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