Supervised

The worth of a life
Who can measure
That which we take
So callously

The pain of a death
Who should have to suffer
That which we force
So thoughtlessly

The silence, the cries
The living, the dead
Who are worse off
Which should we dread

Maybe a new life
A good and a better
Awaits a select few
Not us

We have too much blood on our hands to be clean
We have too heavy a weight on our hearts to be set free
Noone can help us
Noone can save us
Noone can hear us
All they do is fear us

Death on our minds
Dead in our hearts
The death of our souls
Supervised
By the first child's last cry

POV the executioners.
Return to poetry index