The CollectorOh surely my soul is pricked by the spur of the past inspired afflictionThat lays me down so recently - so deeply far beneath the soilThat light can not even pierce, nor water refresh my doomed spiritOh how clever is the one, that foul priest who pierces me with his foilHis quality is such that he believes he causes bloody strike with no errorWhat he considers not, a rotted memory, is the sleeping seed of determinationThough buried am I wholy in the cemetary of memories of horrorThis Wretched Creature who keeps watch remembers not regenerationCursed, lost in the abyss I may be to this clanking collectorFeeling only beaten he
Sta.sh
