Hate

I find it hard to hate
as I know 
if had walked from the start
in his shoes, or hers
or the others
my hands would be now
as equally stained in blood

What is character if not
a cold reflection 
of our ancestors mistakes
viewed through the distorted mirror
of change and the lying
lense of time?

What is malice if not
teardrops of trauma
bleeding through 
the dressings of the mind
like blood from 
old wound, reopened?

What are lies if not
shards of broken truth
crushed together 
by desperate hands, begging
for the world to be 
put back together again?

So forgive me 
when I have a hard time believing 
that this world suffers
from evil. For every angle
I manage to glimpse
this world suffers from hate.