This Is Guilt. Poem by RIC BASTASA

each case is different
and you are the horse
with blind eyes driven
by what you think is
this conscience.

a scrutiny is made
dissection here and there
on the anatomy of
this body of evidence

until you find the wound
its depth and shape
and there you are making
a conclusion

you shut your world
from what they are saying
from theories without
foundations

you light your own candle
and at night looks at the
body again
lifeless, cold and with
so much telling

here, here it is,
your faculties are thinking
your sensitivity sketching
here, here it is,
I've seen it in my own
light
and so early that morning
you write everything

this is it: this is guilt.
this is it, i hand the verdict.