Funny, Isn’t It?

Funny, Isn’t It?

How they think a sorry

Could erase everything.

They stabbed my back,

Watched me bleed to death

Yet stood there still,

Knife in hand, face calm,

Eyes dry, no guilt.

Then they stepped closer and whispered,

In a low voice:

“Sorry.”

Funny, isn’t it?

How they believe sorry,

A word so small, so cheap,

Can stitch the wounds,

Wipe the blood off their hands,

Erase the pain they painted on my soul.

Funny, isn’t it?

How they watch me dying

Yet still believe

A single sorry

Can fix everything,

Can bring me back,

Can undo what they have done.

Funny, isn’t it?