Our hands are stained

in a day where no birds could sing for swelling hearts happiness is painfully disregarded as it shrivels and shrills like salt is to flesh. we all live in cavities where our hands are stained. when throats are washed with dark water the actuality of love is questioned. in this world without end concept holds a struggle to close our own pandora's box. is it by capability or by believe that our longing for one, not two nor three stands real and lust comes in pair? what was before when the end was not? no man is pure, no man is pure.