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 equally guilty in effect.

Blood was on their hands,

Clasped in prayer for peace

Only when violence touched their lives.
Ria 2016

This was written in response to an invitation by Michael at as part of a collaboration with #PoetsForPeace