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