Breaking News

The news is news to me.
As best described as pixels of tears and broken bones,
Anchors hold with voices gold,
And not much more is seen or heard,
But little is known of those involved except that they do suffer.

That they must hold their kin by arms, by legs, by fingers, by blood,
No shame can be described as that which cannot be solved.
That which is missing pieces,
An equation with no solution,
A world of storytelling and unseen resolution.

I see not much by way of pain,
For I live here, I’m far away.
"I wasn't there," I often say.
It's not my core, it's not my life.
I do not witness fear by eye.
I do not fear at all.

Know it I do not,
The taste of blood running,
The smell of burning rubber and tendons,
I do not catch the wanting scent of death or hear the sound of sirens.

No make or model or vision of mind,
Could recreate what one can find,
When met with horror and grief and loss,
And yet it’s found with double clicks,
And yet it’s seen on tiny screens,
And yet it rests in palms of hands,
And yet to this I see no end.

I truly do not understand,
Why plight is shown on high newsstands,
Those whose tragedy is to me,
But stinking ink on a fresh print page,
And yet I feel something, not sympathy but nothing.

I feel no remorse, no tears in my eyes,
No bitter grip upon my throat as if holding back my cries.
I simply sit here and scroll along,
Reading through those who are dead and gone,
Names and numbers repeating with vigor,
Lu and Collier and Downes and Richard.

All missing something,
Be it life or limb,
Be it friends and family and innocence,
And yet here I am pasting their names,
Like icons in frames, like a video game.

So strange it seems to me, I admit,
To write and produce a tribute to it.
To words from monitors and bright white lights,
And printed text and red, blue, green.
So strange indeed, so strange it seems,
But I know that news is just news to me.