Do you forgive?
Or do you maim?
Or do you run for darkness, until covered?
Are you renewed? Or shall I clean thy hair, to make a
porcelain of you,
Perfected by the crafting hands of vein?
Do you perceive?  Or shall I scream? And shout aloud until I
def be, and death be, near, but oblivion be far.
And will it be cold, or burning flesh be like? For you were
there, thy vision it be, crafted by thy sickening and
gorgeous mind.