Guilt

The noose was tight around his neck.
The smile upon his face, broken yet kept.
He wept before he went to hang,
For killed thirty men and holds the blame.

Another there, sobbing hard.
His live unloved, his love a bard.
A romantic song of his true love dear.
Who killed thine self when her love left her.
He killed her love and as he died,
This man felt he had his dead muses love inside.
At last justice he sees intact.
Dealt by his own hand, with his final act.

A last man here, wrong accused.
Bearing the blame, holding no shame.
Beaten for the crimes of one bearing no bruise.
This man, punished till lame.
Will die a death of a sinners verdict.
He cries tears of shame, cries tears of guilt.
But the guilt was never truly his to be felt.

So tell me, we judge men guilty.
We judge all at once, and at once all unequally.
But who are we to say those that are guilty?
The only ones truly guilty are those with out remorse.
They know no limits and see no bounds.
To them, horror is something longed to be found.
In our eyes their terror, in their ears our judgement.
But some do what they do due to our contempt.
If a man's shot dead it's the cause of he who pulled the trigger.
But if we exile a man, are we the cause of him who killed?
Guilt is something we feel, not something we dealt.
Yet pain is something that demands it be felt.

And so these three men corralled.
Made to be knelt.
Hanged on a noose, and their pain,
We seldom felt.

Author's Note

All men fear monsters yet all monsters are men.