Go ahead. Fling your hands up and say
you had nothing to do with it.
It’ll look like praise
to the ones who raise
you up so high on that pedestal.
Only you and me and God: we know.

Truth is your silence was the fuel
that powered grand acts of cowardice.
Your complicity
isn’t hard to see
from a long way off and a long time
gone, and your blank stare looks a lot like

the worst kind of betrayal to me –
piled high, served on a silver platter
with a smile and nod,
in the name of God,
with lots of sheep bleating approval,
because you said, “It’s all for the best.”

You won’t believe how many years
I still believed that you weren’t a wolf
disguised as a sheep
or sinking down deep
in a bog of murky lies you hopped
criss-cross across to your promised land.

I still want to fling my hands up, say
you had nothing to do with it,
you were just confused,
maybe being used
and manipulated. Maybe so.
But I know you've had plenty of time

To change your mind. To search full your heart.
To ask the questions you never did.
But you turned your back,
arranged in a stack
pack of lies, house of cards. Go ahead.
Say you had nothing to do with it.

I may have loved you. God knows I do.
But the millstone is not mine to wear.
And I grieve for you
and the others who,
certain of their righteousness, will curse
the bleating sheep who stand in their way.