I call to you Bearer of dreams, keeper of worlds all too soon, though not soon enough, where the rivers run red and the stymie scent of your distress feeds my passion, my intent, my lust to gather what’s yours, take what’s mine then leave what’s left dead.

Have you the stomach the strength to face this foe I know is waiting upon a rivers flow, watching, spying from its banks?

Carved and served on urban platters soaked with sin, with vile and thin lather is on the lashes left in toe, follow the trail and come to know… me… Masquerader V.

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