Galilee eyed, you walked upon my grief broke my bread and divided my treasures to robed blurs. Love is the apple of Genesis. Man is but a feast of ribs, a table of bitter meat a womb orphan best devoured whole before he worships woman and tastes the cunt of love. Galilee eyed, I sank to my depths laid as an arc of ribs where two by two men fall like sycamore on wood; leaving scarlet threads from your scarlet nails.