Soul Murderer

The tears that beat the heart

with words, with thoughts, with guilt, all brought

upon the soul, so tainted with blood;

Not of murder, plain and clear

of the body that lay here, true,

no, is of the soul,

it died,

but no, it speaks,

which means it still breaths,

tainted with injury it limps,

pain at every step it whimpers.

Can it heal, say I?

Maybe not, without a fee:

a regret of the past,

an injured soul must forget

the murders of its deeds,

to heal.

Heal it may, yet what lay ahead?

Not much, say I.

Unless one find

a heart so pure

and true

to share the burden,

but not dump the burden

on;

An innocent soul to help bury

the past,

remember the past,

but not dwell on it,

while the living still live,

it shall not be.

The soul so tainted, daunted with dread

now stands at a thread

of infamy,

must pull together,

and live,

unless death roams near-