Cracked in several different pieces lies
a mask bound by the school of flesh
A clever tool used to blur the lines
Between a saint and filthy wretch

Archaic would be the best word to describe
The spring snow I ought to see
And yet there's still something beautiful about suicide
I think Mishima would agree

But these metaphors are every bit as absurd
As the films you made me watch
Silent whispers never heard
And yet again I ruin the plot

In the mood for love
Yes, that's all you've ever been
Like the sudden slap of a glove
A life once hidden now is seen

Somewhere there is a man I used to know
Better yet revere
Blood stains red springs gentle snow
Giving way to flowery years

There is death before dishonour
If not of the body then of the mind
As summer winds blow warmer
So do memories fade in time