Some of the crimes are nothing but plasters,
Covered layered by layered,
Blocked as plaque,
Loathed and hated,
Bandaged each time to heal,
Sometimes to conceal,
But they are not our wounds,
Generational trauma,
Or Some borrowed agonies,
Itchy and bloody,
Pricking deep,
Turned blue yet veiled,
Each one of us have some,
Whether priest or sinner,
These plastered crimes!