Without Blame

Frosted windows in the summer. Careful is distorted by pain. And we forget who we are when the icy fingers grab our shoulders and shake away our bravery. Breaking is the line that separates the living from the dead. Bodies stripped of their working hearts. Dead. You watched them die, cry, try, give their last breaths. And you smiled for the rest of your days, Because you were told to. You gave crying its own selfish time, and then you grew up some more. You read, and watched, Heard, and chose not to hear. And you taught all the things you are not. You will die a body without blame. Written away with a Rest In Peace. As the heartless disappear. Pieces of them taken away by the gusts of wind that want them. And ice will form on the windows in the summer. Care is gone. To be placed into the hands of another. Good, we will call you. So long as you kill not with your hands. Brave, we will call you.