you, who dared to cast the first stones that buried
you, master of the art of isolation
waved your white flag of non-truths and blatant half/whole lies
closed your eyes and clicked your heels together and
prayed that it would be over quickly…
you, who smugly cast those first stones that buried her
under your vast and far-reaching rockpile
covering the breadth and depth of your icy sea and deadened heart
you, so easily and most capably, dismissed a life
you, who justified your act by a perceived most generous sum
you, who cast the first stones with knife-sharp edges that tore
you, who peppered the rhyme and reason with lies and innuendos…
you, who coldly thought wiping your hands clean
would be the easiest path
you, who will, no doubt, be shocked at finding
her blood splattered across your face
staining your hands oh yes! on your hands will stay her blood
blood that may fill that empty, unused place you call a heart
until you, too, take your last impending breath..
wear it, let it warm you
like a cozy red overcoat, warming your remains
as you struggle to forget the unthinkable on a cold, winter’s night
will that taste of iron and fire on your lie-filled lips hold regret?
doubtful…
today, i read a line that answered simply
all of the inexplicable and hurtful behaviours
of humans
in families of blood, of choice, of service
you, the master of this art, may well have named the phrase
wear it comfortably
with pride of ownership
fitting it, like your own second skin
four simple words, describing you and your compassionate team:
they eat their wounded