My Gift To You

I would count a Man with the Dead,
Just to rip of his Shattered Head,
Collect the Splinters of his Skull,
To make you a Jigsaw Puzzle,

They said I was not sane, they said something was wrong,
Listening to these false accusations for long,

Without feeling any Penance,
I would then rip out his Tendons,
Give them a Stretch, use them as Strings,
Play you a Song, while my Spirit Sings,

They said I was wicked, that I was truly mad,
A second opinion, something I never had,

Lest I forget, the Third of Gifts,
His Heart Impure, in Blood It Drifts,
Unable to give you my own,
For mine is but a Blackened Stone,

But it is man that simply cannot comprehend,
That my boundless passion knows no visible end.