Torn fragments of my memory line the walls,
Like a collage of crumpled up newspaper articles,
All in chronological order,
Record my painful life and deeds.
Blood paints these walls,
Death rears it's ugly face,
Through the blackened stone,
Reaching out with slender hands,
Trying to grab something that isn't there.
My souls still haunts this room,
My presence still lingers,
Like a foul odor,
That can never be washed out,
On the chair rests a shriveled up corpse.
The blank souless eyes stare into oblivion,
Towards the fragmented memories that line the wall,
The mouth filled with dust,
Small bugs crawl out of inside the pocket of his robe,
The nose smells nothing but the dead.
My life is before your eyes,
See my masterpieces before me,
Feel the presence of my evil,
This wall is to comemorate me,
The bringer of your own demise.
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