Hope is nothing but the flipside of despair
running on empty, still, something
burning like acid, chilling like frost
veins all tapped out, and yet you still bleed
you lie there all tingling
    upon bloodstained sheets
        no game left to play, the dice always come up snake-eyes
and still your eyes flutter open
        with the kiss of the sunlight

Break, break, break it down, my brother
Is it true?
    That the arms of a man were made
    for nothing but tearing and rending
and all we know is stabbing and raping
washing our hands in blood?

    The bearer of seed
and then a weapon
a dam of stone against the killing tide
but lifeless as you tend to life
upon the fertile loam, gras and grain grasping at sunlight
Oh, does this vessel that holds my soul
taint even my very words?