When blood splatters on canvas And melancholy stains my skin I slowly feel the Madness Of unatonable sin Tearing through our distress Ignoring what they tell me problems willfully unaddressed Filleting my flesh as a remedy When my blood runs cold And complexion sits pale Would my memory grow mold ? Would thoughts of me grow stale? Can fragments once again join? Are they simply too mauled? How does man reflect on the pieces But not know how his puzzle is solved ?