Crimson Sheets

By A.E. Bayne

We bear the sins of our fathers as crimson sheets.
Dreams wax and wane…
awaken to whitewashed tiles,
cozened to the idea that we are someone
protesting a great irreconcilable,
we are one and alone.
Perhaps Babel was truth
or chance we play the fool.
Humanity split, indifferent –
they are rusty days
far from our inherited boldness.