The wrinkled fingers, water pruned, wear wicked streaks of red, and no matter how hard he tried he could not wash away the sickening stain. Those wretched marks, flecks of flesh, would not come off. Worse than mud, cause they were blood that painted this strange space; These places were faces faced a horror many chose not to name.
            No water cause the wells were polluted; Instead, they raised their cups for the dead. A gulp of whiskey, one shot of bourbon, two bottles of beer, could not clear this crazy swell. The sea of madness marked with sadness another stain that would not wash away.
            Now, the old black and brown pipe smokes itself, while its owner huddles in horror. The last bits of **** wasting away. They do not make a herb strong enough to un-see what was seen that day.
            Blue eyes of innocence, a child’s stare, but this is me cheating cause I was not there. This is me stealing the stories of others. This is me crafting silk strings from the screams of people I will never meet. Yet their sorrow is a stain that will not wash away. Even with millions of miles, and decades between us I am still marred. No water or whiskey, nor drug of choice could dull this ache, and only death will wash this madness away.