The Plastic Scapegoat

They say it was a shame,
young blood once warm,
once coursing aimlessly,
now gelid and worthless.

They blamed the stress,
such a foul and odious fate,
the preacher forging eulogies.
He did not know you as well.

I know it was you who spilled,
from your careless mouth;
false crimson tainted answers.
Do not be coy with me friend.

You were the one to tell me,
it could be better this way--
in your oh so ominous tone.
I knew you not to be trusted.

Still I, the lamb, fell prey
to the silver tongue of wolves.
Your tongue!
Stained with steel and powder.

To comfort me now I have naught
but the annual bouquet of roses,
sympathies of those who barely knew me;
and they say it was a shame.