Steeping immensely into a chasm of blood
where the hands crack from scorched nails
and the insides, once more with feelings;
are disassembling into aloofness, impartial.

World is turning incarnadine from humans,
stains all over the earth, cannot mend.
Blood-shed and sacrifices for prominence,
mostly coming down to the almighty dollar.

Intelligences are implanted from small tubes,
your companion is the glistening bottle,
and grains of salty mess to roll up.
So they rub and rub, to hide the greed
but that red scar and patch, cannot be
extracted, even from the unaided eye.

Those voices, omniscient from substances
but cannot decipher those that are real.
Maimed after all these years from teaching
What really is the right way to think,
humanity in this life could never know.