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 ?