Hands

The dried paint digging under his fingernails,

Soaking into his skin,

Seeping into his soul.

Washed off, but never washed.

Walking the streets in anguish of mind he says,

"The hands are still red, the hands are still red."

Day and night tormented by a voice from the past,

And his blood-stained hands.

Tears cannot cleanse them clean,

Sorrow cannot wash his sin away.

A long walk to the precinct;

From blood-stained hands to cold, chained hands.