The flesh may still be fine... One must just pare bruised And bad spots away, As a razor once excised mine. A blurred mind mused At the slowness of life When it oozed, Crimson's contrast On pale skin, Like paint Escaped my palette, Or red roses on canvas, Mute shouts of color Wasted in slick puddles On the floor. Red too soon fades sepia; Wounds become scars, Their hardness protects, Forever reminds. Though grown timid Of assaults from steel, Old psyche still yields To lancet's probing, Words released fall, Now as drops to paper.