Metanarrative

It’s just another tragedy.

Not first, not last.  I know

Its algorithmic frequency;

A back page tale of woe.

With other lives, and other grief,

All bones in a mass grave

Of stolen years.  Prodigious thief

Who cares not for the brave.

The birds should stop.  The sky should fall.

Yet planets turn as though

The world sees nothing changed at all

By how that deal did go.

Is it a joke?  If so, it’s poor.

Cruel Bard, please change the plot.

I am not laughing anymore

(But you care not a jot).

And this will pass as age old pain

Will also pass and fade.

Not noted Queen, but rather rain

That falls on our parade.