And all He ever talks about
Is blood, death and the end of all our kind.
Free people, though we are
Our brains can’t discern want from need,
Anger from agony and most of all,
A cerebral acquiescence to pardon and gore.
The view from above, He says
Is of red on dewy grass; and black above
Spots of intense maritime trade.
(You dig deep to find
What you buried long, long ago)
But bleed your palms to see
That the said time and its devices
Aren’t wholly free of conscience.
Fail in the face of pain,
But try better a second time?
Unbearable as it is, for a last resort
You hope for death to relieve-
The feelings that tether you to this hellish life.