Irreplaceable

The face is still
As the knife twists in the gut
The hands benevolent and
The lips smiling, inviting
Yet the blood still came
Thick, red, like a torrent and
The face knew not what it
Had done. It fails to
Realise the pain and anguish
Brought about by itself.
The fatal child lies
Writhing in the corner but
It was not that hands that sinned
But the sadism of the soul.