I saw inside a court one night,
Parts and flickers,
As we switched channels,
Like we all change our minds.
And I saw one who had murdered another,
(Or perhaps, did not).
Those who sit on the bench only know if they have held the knife.
Or gun.
Or fist.
So, I watched.
And saw that one had received few years,
Of time.
And saw a grieving family,
Filled to the top with dread,
Overflowing with sorrow,
Spilling with anger.
And saw a lonely relative, in the corner,
Of the opposite side,
Desperate,
Scared.
Confused.
Guilty?
We do not know who are the ones to blame.
And we do not know the innocents.
Halos above their head,
May be the horns perched.
Sometimes that is right.
Sometimes that is wrong.
Sometimes we are right.
Sometimes we are wrong.
But sometimes we know the truth,
Ignored,
Or pushed aside.
We understand, sometimes we are guilty or innocent too.
And we know.
And we know.
Guilty?
YOU ARE READING
After Me
PoetryThe time I live in is where battles fought in outer countries are merely represented on a nightly screen, and only two worldly wars are remembered as the worst of them all. But what will happen after me?
