Testament is given as critical faces scan the wooden room.
No one questions, it is in fact too late.
Who can blame him for his selfish impulse to live?
He is haunted enough it seems.
The shrieks of the drowning roll around in his ears
And his eyes force the sound down the throats of those he passes.
He is still standing, but his shoulders bend to the pavement.
Composure regained, papers take the time to call him “coward”
And courageous men in ties with Windsor knots sip tea in sunrooms
Appointing blame with boneless fingers.
But J. Bruce Ismay testified. Nothing more should be required.
We are eager for reproach rather than truth.
We scold and snarl to be justified, when we ought to be haunted.
Who stands as a hero in the paths he has never walked?
When woven moments cross our days, wear gentle ears and open eyes.
The dust on my shoes is not from your trail, but my own.
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