Christine M. Petrarca
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The Trembling Of Blame
Please, don't get lost in the oil spill of my blame.
The fire that follows could easily cause shame.
The stains on my sweater will show you my weather,
And it is sure I am someone you cannot tether.
My strokes are unsteady as I tread in the night,
But my hands show my vigor, my stealth, and my might.
The sandbags rest heavily on their eyes' furry tail,
While the ocean is calling on something so frail.
My labyrinth of language has torn at the beach.
The truth seems so close, yet so far out of reach.
Blood is so blue it drives life to its sheath,