Eleven

Is that blood on your hands,
Those you’ve cleansed twice over?
Does the amount still reside,
Or have you polished yourself sober?

Is that blood on your hands,
Or are my eyes victimized by ingenuity?
Or has innovation got the best of me,
As I bore in my mind the inconceivable inanely.

Have you pondered the thought,
With a breadth of facts at your feet—
Or must your stool pigeon,
Be tacit as he speaks.
Ha, the lies that you have taught him,
just all that you know,
Like how to be rotten,
Or to execute a show.
And his sight has grown perverse,
Oh, the logic he has,
for the words you have conversed,
Have become all he can grasp.

For you’ve done this twice over,
Whilst there was blood on your hands,
You kept it concealed,
All that would regard the clandestine.

For you’ve broken a many,
You’ve tortured some hearts,
And you abscond,
As to avoid prosecution for these scars.

And that is blood on your hands,
And that is sin in your grin,
Like a stain eyes can’t see,
But you’ve failed to hinder my vision.