It was like that. And then it changed. By the death of one man we were all told to forget too early. Just to “get him behind us”. A quick solution to complications never meant to resolve. An acid water that never lost its bite, but always kept the bad taste from the corrosion it caused. We sailed past dragging a heavy anchor (like shoals were near and the storm would not subside.) It didn't, just came and went anew. Always over something else, like a rogue's theft... the same but behind a different mask. Another quick solution with the same oily feeling somehow the soap left behind.
Time and time again. The media but a drumbeat to a cadence more redundant than an African dance. Would that slumber had some exoneration; would that justice could be had by capitulation. Until the very word, would, became its own rebuke. When found in the eye of a storm (one that grew forevermore) named Fukushima, our moral sleep-walking could no longer “get him behind us.”