These Bloody Hands Poem by James Callos Jordan

His hands are tainted with crimson mess,
For he did things that no one could do.
Who ever is laid down in front of him,
He slaughters without mercy; he cut slashes and hacks,
Without a speck of neither pity nor shame.
A tool of death that has no free will,
Only yeses to whatever commands he hears.
But behind that mask of dark cloth,
Lays a man who’s helpless in his ways.
A man who cries and a man who bleeds,
For his hands were now a different being;
Heretic hands that passes only one type of judgment:
Guilty beyond reasonable doubt
And punished like a scythe through a sprout.

July 7,2009