The Collector

Oh surely my soul is pricked by the spur of the past inspired affliction
That lays me down so recently - so deeply far beneath the soil
That light can not even pierce, nor water refresh my doomed spirit
Oh how clever is the one, that foul priest who pierces me with his foil
His quality is such that he believes he causes bloody strike with no error
What he considers not, a rotted memory, is the sleeping seed of determination
Though buried am I wholy in the cemetary of memories of horror
This Wretched Creature who keeps watch remembers not regeneration
Cursed, lost in the abyss I may be to this clanking collector
Feeling only beaten heart in which he finds false glory to shatter as crystal splintering
Oh foolish fiend, oh horrid idiot, though he stands in such wicked thought handsome guard
He has forgotten that most wonderous light, the key to conquer, freedom in love still shimmering