One man's fall from grace, The divine once his master, Returned to the Eden of his dreams, All but a shattered disaster, Watching his reflection in the shards, His blood drips down rivers faster, Than his mind can wrap around A broken Master. "I built you," he cried words twisted, "But you are the sickness," The Master resisted. "Are we not but Holy?" He cried in desparation, "We are what we make, All our thoughts blistered."