Does a tragedy mature or
is it’s overrun by others?
Growing into memory, fading
into subconsciousness, a fabric
weaved to bring comfort or
shield the blows of others?

More and new, and continuing
for so many, with lasting scars.
Scars which cannot be cut
again, and worse yet
the wounds which heal only
in the finality of the end.

And yet some will not know,
some not yet of age never
felt the shock, never felt the
pain and rage, but know it
though the next and future
tragedies of their lives.

Tragedy seems to mature in
its own way, changing the
world and us in the
crucible-melting of our
innocence, until hard
lessons-learned are forgotten.