The Weight

Some truth's borne hard, heavy, anchor lead.
It bows the shoulders, knits the eyebrow sullen.
Feet shuffle slowly, with reluctant tread.
The heart bangs hollow; numb nerves deaden.
O'erwhelmed, the mind contracts, proud arms weaken.
Bright colors pale, till lowly grey they've bled.
Time drags slowly, rubber watch hands lengthen.
Sound dims. The din of former echo dead.
Woeful walking lonely, with sorrow wed.
A stranger's touch is hot, startled sudden;
momentary meeting, mental torsion.
Each morning sunrise, tear filled waking, dread.
Nighttime slumber's promise: nightmares dawning;
midnights rueful waking, choking, clawing . . .

What truth is this could weigh so heavy?
Only whispered condemnation heaping guilt
of murder. It is a morbid levy,
predicted killing ere the bloods been spilt.
The bitter taste of salt upon the lips
is not consoling to the heart nor soul;
just bitter, when blameless blood must drip
in the gutter. Life leaving leaves a hole,
and blameless empty shoes are never filled.
Nights of panic, days of grief and mourning,
while killers lips of stealth remain unstilled.
To pair so close with anguish is like drowning.
Yet another beating heart is given,
coldly given death. The mind is riven.