some die

the clouds have come in,
the wind is picking up,
and it is getting cold.
a tree sways in front
and there is music
coming from
the other
side of
the
house.
I'm thinking about
murder
and death
and the
finality of it all.
how can a man
kill another
in rage?
what is it about us that
is fascinated with those
crimes?
do we wonder what the victim
saw in those fluttering moments
before darkness took them away?
do we care that much for them?
are we humane in our morbidity?
there is a cold wind
and the tree swims
away the breeze,
fluttering between
this leaf and that.
and the clouds
take away the
sun and
the imaginings
along
with
it
to return
with the
floating
morning
that breaks
the dawn.