by Rachelle Howe
It propels me to hate you.
They say in poetry you're to show and not
I'm telling you that
hatred is the easier option.
Oh, I could paint
your blood red upon these shallow pools,
these limbs you devoured
here's the thing
and it's tricky
Indifference now is all I have.
the pan handler on the street
the broken boy who begs for his mother who
is too hungry to feed
but we feed from the blood of the innocence
and no one is innocent
not here they aren't.
and you'd argue like a republican.
but here dead means
here there are no second chances.
my Christian morality tells me that I should
forgive as far as the east is from the west
but I'm not Jesus and
I didn't partake upon your last supper.
No, last I checked
your Facebook message was read.
And I was not left with an apology.
I was not left with having to feel bad to finally say that
we are but ships passing.
we are but ink blots upon a Rorschach test.
we are but
We are but the test of time.
We are but the ripple effect.
We are but it all.
We are but complete.
Author's Note: Heeeehh.
Posted on 08/05/2015
Copyright © 2021 Rachelle Howe