The apple Tree

For immortal heart my blood distaste,

Upon the reigns of rattle snake,

To slither through, the gates of hell,

Or burn the pews, and churches bell.

The mind of love, not though last,

Time dismayed of hate to cast. They be righteous, tortured friend.

Let this not be, forgiveness lend.

If not the slither sound.

For knowledge of the tree of fire,

Burns the shattered ground.