scapegoat

musn't he be then?
the musky one?
the killer.
his bent reed dirty boot foot path
leads right to the corpse.
he stinks of rotten leaves
sin written on his wide drooping
mouth and in the creases at the corners
of his eyes.
it's clear.
the waves of
guilt have lapped him up,
and washed him out for us to see.
mute, yes, but just as guilty.
there,
in his eyes!
i'm not so sure.
the light's gone from the eyes.
i can hardly make him out anymore,
not much more than a weeping shadow,
flickering here in our waiting room.
a mere apparition.
i won't point my finger,
nothing is certain.