Grimace creased with heavy pain,
Must be the speckled face,
With spattered shame, of he who soaks
in pooling, crimson stains.
While we watched, as blood drips dropped,
we noisily complained
at he who rended God and man
between his savage gains.
We didn’t act, nor did we track
his evidence in rain.
Like shattered glass, when storms had passed,
that man had gone insane.
Dazed, we stared,
a funeral procession gaze,
as spirits yielded, and morosely sealed,
a hollow, empty grave.
With no one left to blame,
as retreating thunder tames,
this truth dripped serpent’s kiss insists,
all mankind begins
to blankly count our days.