Master made a tax collector out of me,
Graced me with the scent of gold,
Fresh and stale and warm and cold.

The masses warned me for my fate to be
"The Forth Circle awaits, behold!"
In hushed whispers I was told.

But a poor, blind man now I cannot see
The price upon my head sold,
One more soul to collection old.

Whence a shadow
Ceases to be a shadow,
Love can be seen
In the Light
That hath vanquished
The pain in its iniquity.

Who I am ceases to be
When the
Beneficent Matriarch Mirror
Unfurls the Pandemonium
Ruminant behind the glass.

For this umbra
Is still the darkness
Of a heart
Eclipsed
In its own Dark Orbit.

Until the Dawn
Shines Eden
Upon Flourishing Spirits
Purged of the
Loveless Blight
Existing only in their minds and hearts.