Guilt

But the blood
is still on our hands.

Sun shines,
Birds sing.
They carry on
without a care for us.

Never will we forget
Never can we forget

Earth
Cleaning up after us,
Irritated Mother
Washing clean our wounds.

Nothing will wipe
Away our conscience

The sun came out today,
Banishing the rain clouds.
Maybe the rain
washed away the mess,

But the blood
is still on our hands.

I am a writer
Collecting words like one does wine,
Beautiful is meaningless to me.

I live in rippling hair,
Enraged words spoken in quiet control.
What does red mean without light?

I correct grammar
Quoting Dickinson to a (not so) admiring bog.
What does a w h i s p e r feel like?

I am a writer,
Pretentious and pompous,
Reeking of soured pride.