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Blood On Their Hands

Blood was on their hands,

Smelling raw and sticky,

Stained the darkest red.

–

Voices whisper pleas,

Beat against deaf eardrums

But getting no attention.

–

Never feeling the last breathe

As it escaped so many,

Caught up in their tragedies.

–

Ignoring over time past,

When the perspective

On killing had changed.

–

Those thoughtless acts,

Resulting in a life lost,

Upsetting the natural order.

–

Indulged in war strategies,

And games, and crimes,

Camoflaged and justified.

–

Drones dropping bombs

Across borders into lives

Counted in the casualties.

–

Acts of violence on strangers,

Turns likewise to neighbours

Whose lives do not matter.

–

Sewing seeds abroad,

To inevitably reap at home

A disregard for existance.

–

And for most individuals,

They only feel the graveness

When death darkens their doorway.

–

They, having done nothing

Until tragedy hits their household,

Are…