, , ,

The wound made by the silent knife

With its blade so old and yet still so sharp,

Still cuts deep into flesh that cannot help but yield

And bleed whilst shedding tears that fall unseen,

Our shame is failing to notice

Our shame is in failing to deal with the hand that holds the blade

Our shame is unmeasurable

Our shame is the ghost of a quiet wolf, caged and chained

Our tears have run dry in a bitter summer that has lasted years

Our shame is complete