parched

i’m sorry, mr. horse,
that you died for my elmer’s glue,
but it seems you died for nothing,
because the bottle’s still closed and new.

and i’m sorry, miss flower,
that you died for my bouquet,
it must have been painful,
being dried and feathered in such a way.

and i’m sorry, monsieur dove,
that you’re locked inside this cage,
that your wings are clipped and your song parched
from years of thirsting rage.

but i don’t think it’s my place to apologize,
because it’s only my conscience that feels guilt,
for wrongs i haven’t committed
and blood I’ve never spilt.

but it seems your life has been forgotten,
and for that i am ashamed—
since my fellow beings find death normal,
it’s my conscience who’ll be blamed.