these are not my emotions this anger and fear is older than my years upon this earth it is the taste of dried blood and the dust of those once enslaved freed by death to wander with whatever winds reach into soul to reanimate their words so their sorrow and stories can be retold these are not my words so expect no apologies or absolution of social sins the dead cannot make such offerings to the living they can only recall the sins you’ve lived and the pain you’ve bestowed
there appears to be no particular pattern to the way the glass has shattered all around my feet it’s difficult to determine the angle of the throw or the thrower’s size and weight just another stone of hate hurled through the stifling smoke of anger a stone anointed with the rancid oil of their blind belief a belief in words transcribe and compiled by men i wonder though how often they’ve thrown their books of faith through windows