Another vile smudge reminds me
Not just of times more compassionate
But of the same sickening sadness
Which swells each day at the sight
Of your kind.

Do those who cull so callously
Know. Or care. More likely they do
You'd have thought, though I hope not.
Yet my mind contorts with thoughts
Of their reason in such grotesque rhyme.

But what is done shall remain.
I see it now clear in frame.
That "what" has passed,
Awaits me too
Someday.