These Things

The things left unsaid
Are the things that linger
Are the things that we cannot forget
Are the things that eventually break our hearts
And drive us mad.
We cannot put these things to bed
And they stay in our beds with us.
To remind us
To torture us
These things
These things left unsaid
Are often the things that would have changed the course of it.
And we never forgive ourselves for that.

But a Word

Exquisitely you say nothing
This silence
Serene and final.
This silence
Cold and dismal.
This silence
Calculated cruelty
Aimed at my heart
Which is already in shambles.
Pieces left nameless
On the tattered rug.
But a word
Is all I need
You keep that word.
You hold that word.
That blessed word
That cursed word
I need that word.
For to release that word
Would be to release me.
And there is nothing left to say.

This Masterpiece of Massacre

Our future
Dire, by choice
Free will to create our hell
To destroy our heaven
To mangle our brethren
We teeter on the precipice
Easily swayed
Conscience in shambles
Drones
Civilization's uncivilized creation
Commodity of carnage
Profiteering mongers of destruction
Fortunes made off bloodshed

The art of war.
This war, an art?
Painted tears
Canvasses smeared with blood
Picturesque monstrosity
Sadistic splendor
This masterpiece of massacre
A paintbrush in one hand
A machete in the other
This humanity.
This hell.

Paradoxical duality
Our blessed curse
Blood-lust and roses
Carnally carmine, we are.

We are these things.
For, we made these things.
We can change these things.
Lest we remain these things.

This masterpiece of massacre
Does not have to be our final work of art.

Past Woe

Exoneration from past ruin
Amongst martyrs
Seeking absolution
Past woe is slain
Leaving smiles
On dusty doorsteps
The smell of bleach lingers
The reminder of past malaise
Spiritually cleansed
I put on a new dress
And dance in the rain
Reverence
Leaving flowers on graves
Sweet remembrance
And now the pain
No longer burns.