The blade against open skin
Evokes euphoria, bliss.
The cycle of your very being
Emptied of its fuel
Is divinity unmitigated.

To pain openly and well
And see the world bluried
Is a peace.
Black is the slate
And gave you life.

If the form given finds its joy
In all of the darks and heights,
The pitiless sorrows
And ectatic pleasures,
How could one not see?