Death (and all of his cruel friends)

Death (and all of his cruel friends) ::
They ask, they plead : 
why do bad things happen to good people? Why? ? ? 
Nobody can say, nobody can know, the world works without regard for our feelings, a steamroller on consequence. Things they happen, and such is life, as Ned Kelly intoned. How prophetic was he, the brave man in tin, fearless and lawless. He is a legend here, he is a hero here, he was a lawbreaker. Our Heath played Our Ned : it was a match that a sunburnt Straya embraced. We were proud of Our mottled history; our Heath! But then, do you remember when our Heath died? Where were you when Our Heath died? The beautiful talented golden man, ripped from a hopeful country, from a family and friends. But why why? Such waste, they cry in the streets, painting macabre joker grins, stretched and mocking in the occasion. Had he lived too much? Did God want His golden sunbrushed boy back? It doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense, nobody can make reasonings of it all. The strands of reason are flailing loose, whipped around by the hurricane of grief. Nobody can understand, because there is no sense to be had. It is impossible, but try please try, this is what makes us human, this is what keeps our hearts beating and our veins pumping in a predictable pulse