Actions, like spay-paint, have stained your hands
Is it the color you’ve longed for
or are you shocked to see what they’ve become?

Thoughts, like fire, have burned your brain
Is it the texture you’ve longed for
or are you shocked to see what it’s become?

With gloves in hand you keep your mouth shut,
you never show your eyes
Who will listen to you now?
justice doesn’t hear your cries

Remorse is a beautiful thing
when seen by those who have suffered by you

Fall 1993