Clean Hands

They called it virtue—keeping clean, To speak of blood, yet never bleed. They filter grace through finest screen, And wonder why no souls are freed. They’re rinsing hope in pristine gloves, But cleaning wounds? They stay away. Responsibly has dues, And people hardly ever pay. Their empty vows had overflowed, While wringing help, they proudly frowned, And flower gasped beneath that flood As in their “help” it slowly drowned. And I, who watched their boastful act, Saw petals fall like they were damned, For kindness done without the heart Still leaves a death upon the hand. That’s how we live, behind the glass, We wave, we smile, we “sympathize”. But never touch, lest warmth should pass, And prove us human…once, or twice.