The price is always measured in dried blood,
the world's all visible, naught may be hid,
reality's a pot lacking its lid,
truth strikes the floor with a definite thud
revealing the deep rot beneath the crud.
Nothing we do can temper nor forbid
our paying up for awful things we did
for all can see our footprints in the mud.
All that we claim as fact is one huge lie
that we have used to win us, out of strife,
delay from the inevitable end
hidden above even the brightest sky:
The levinbolt that blasts every sweet life,
for which there is no answer that could mend.
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