Breech
When trust dies
Wrung out like laundry
Hung on lines of self-pronounced justice
Vindicated
When we feel the right is ours
Stretched on racks of ethics
Thin like lines that mark the face of the worn
Tired
When forgiveness takes a backseat to rightness
Dripping like oil down the beard of the judge
Anointing poured out missing its target
Who can stand when the finger points back?