Lois absorbs into herself the tragedies of others
from road signs and small crosses at the mountain edge.
Six people killed this year; don't be next.
Like a cream, Lois rubs it in between her breasts
and on her face covering her breathable skin.
She has no wall between herself and others.
They are to her as herself is and are in pain.
Stranger to herself likewise as the others are.
And glorious in anonymity, they are stars
winked out before she think they're due.
Stars die with great force but no will.
Their destiny was cast as they became
to us; our celestial vectors were set
as we were at birth and so to our demise.
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