Vidal, you’ve made the ancient man, his head in palm, his face to ground

covered in stool of pigeon filth and vulgar: naked to the world.

His shame unleashed upon the earth, a shame we keep our heads turned from;

to see him is to bring about a darkness cradled deep within,

a darkness howling in our skulls, its ceaseless noise a numbing weight.

So stained within the brain and soul, just like the shit upon his head;

a stain that cannot be scrubbed clean, a stain of silence left unsaid.

Its weighty quiet blaring loud, our world, entrenched, has dug around

The mention of the greatest sin, the act undone that made us all.

So shuffle awkward from the word, its sharp K disembowels us all.

So perfect have you carved our shame, upon the altar of that stone,

a stone that came from rib and bone, a stone cut out before Eden;

a stone we carry in our minds, a stone that we cannot rewind.

This faceless one which you have made, the faceless one from which we sprang,

cannot be thought to come from one, for all of us come from that seed.

Vidal, this beast which you have carved will stand above us and within

Our hearts, immovably perfect. Omnisciently unwavering.

Cain’s eyes, or should I say our eyes, shielded from unbroken gospel:

A hummed hymn hatefully harrowed, and habitually repressed,

Runs through each finger as we place our shameful head into our hands.

We are covered in its filth. We are carved from its filth. Cain. You. And I.