Measure of Limits

I did not bear witness.
Witness bore me into unspeakable depression.

When we talked to each other
we could not get past sports to politics.

Our sentences self-diverted around the storm
then stalled in the dull-drums.

We were not doing well.
Time shape-shifted into the albatross around my neck.

Though I tried to give you honest answers
I failed, but lied in less than half the responses.

Those lies were about the factual truth.
What I spoke was my emotional truth.

Inadvertently I became a master of avoidance—
especially from others in this dark solitude.

My mind lost descriptive words from lack of use.
Language refused to be a shovel to dig my depression deeper.

Language took a stab at crude description
and pierced witness through the left foot into the ground.

It described a littered street as a slaughter house.
The deceased lay with hands tied behind their backs.

There were no more cheeks to turn.
Justice required a reckoning.

I waged war with love on my tongue
and in my murderous hands.

That was why POWs lived
to have a day in court.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

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