Not Guilty

But it was gone in a cloud of parasites and spontaneous combustion of the family photos, breadcrumbs decomposed or eaten by a missing week of mom’s medicated sleep. 
It was interrupted by a strange and mannerless child, feral and stung and allergic. 

He had something important to say, you know?

Framed and executed,

Breath escapes silent, still, and deep


And ends up somewhere in Pacific lungs again, collapsing under a fashionably late epi pen, and scrawling its neglect in alibi ink. 

That’s futility. So it goes.