From whence it was, and whence it came, And since it was, was not the same, And since the name, was spoken back, The things it loved, were turned to black. And black they were, though black is not, Black as could be, before it’s stopped, And left to be, held back before, The words were shaped, to metaphors. And as they were, they were like rain, Dyed red with blood, to hide the stain, That eats away, at one’s white life, Until it’s dyed, with a sharp knife. As it is, and as it was, Was not the same, but just because, The stains are gone, problems still live, Complications, relative. The more it gives, the more it seems, The more it gives away its dreams, And loses out, on what is left, While trying to enjoy the best. And rest for then another day, To come again, for chance to say, The way to test, is left without, The way to find, the shortest route.