So stained a heart
that is of man’s—
right down, the soul,
cold-blooded conscience
struggling for the sun
to reach its intimate core,
but nothing seems to run
in those veins of old;
no sweat or blood—
all seem under control;
no tears to falter now—
a heart as hard as stone;
mindless species you are and I,
have been fighting all along
for what must be ours
but never yours or mine alone—
an apple only tastes like heaven
when no one else is holding one;
a taste can always be divine
if tasted by no one else.

The rain must fall
to wash the stains
down in a pool of mud
mixed from the dirt we have within,
the scars like a paintbrush
have also added a shade of blood;
we might have known
to whom we do belong,
but minds enchained as slaves
to an eyeless greed
foreseen by no one
and seen by no one,
for we can only know
only what we can see
only what we do want;
The rain must fall at once
like that on Noah’s arc
nonstop, only this time
I doubt, he will choose
to save, anyone.