They spot an armful of red dots run along the thick skin.
Of forelorn hands, heavy smiles, of a body not so thin.
They say it's the rash of youth, healed over time.
A layer of mind, peeled and wrapped around a repressed crime.
Perhaps they live a saint's life and all die as Gods.
And we go to hell as jokers. what are the odds?
I cannot unveil the piercing daggers, what they see is only tips.
I am to plant a kiss of life on my own lips.
Since drought has empraced my aching heart,
I ***** blood each second, live, but fall apart.