To want the past
before the bomb
before the sudden
flash of light that
sunders all and cinders
all to ash
is pain.
For eyes past milk
galaxies will never see,
having been burnt, nor
bones after cremation
from their urns intact, emerge.
No, murder brands enduring
a silhouette in mind,
the black of contempt.
Why stare into plumes billowing up
to be condemned forever?
You can have no revenge
but to forget.