The blindness of man.
The fruit of life.
The bell of liberty.
The stick of truth.

The blunt force of reality, the heavy log it’s carrying.
Life, family, friends, nature’s nurturing trees.
The ringing in one’s ears, a constant yearning for freedom.
Twisted and contorted to the unruly, unjust eyesight of man.

The log, carrying lies.
The fruit that is rotting.
The impair sense of our kind.
The bell with a perpetual break.

Blind as long as the eyes can see.
A ring that only the deaf can hear.
Truths that only the dishonest understand.
A fruit that only the dead live off of.

The blindness of man.
The bell of Liberty.
The stick of truth.
The fruit of life.

Dried wood, hollow to the core and unable to bend,
Unlike the threads spun by human lies.
To eat of Eden is but a blessing now.
But the entitled with their ringing already burned the garden down.

The dead fruit, swamped with flies.
The stick broken upon impact.
The bells no longer ringing.
Spending an eternity in Hell.