Mayhem at the Marathon

The world is filled with wackos;
How horrible and sick
To plant some bombs and walk away –
What makes such people tick?

What satisfaction can be gained
By knowing you’ve destroyed
So many lives? A question
That would even stymie Freud.

A joyous day, the marathon;
For Boston, it’s supreme –
The runners at the finish line
In constant steady stream…

Then boom! A bomb explodes,
A second following behind,
To permanently shatter
Everybody’s peace of mind.

We watch the images repeat
And just like J.F.K.
Or 9/11, we get hooked
And cannot look away.

I guess the bomber’s purpose, then,
Like those who’ve gone before,
Is playing puppet master –
Only that and nothing more.

But people aren’t puppets
So if evil’s got the strings,
There’s no end to the heartache
That his awful action brings.