A pale knight walks the streets of my dreams
Every inch of Her, covered in a mess of seams
Each night I cut her down
A pale moonlight to greet me when I wake

And each night She returns
New scars, She adorns

Oddly, I feel no fright
Yet, every night I fight
Yet, every night I fight
Yet, every night I sight
Her

I know this to not be a plight
I know this to be right
I know this Wight
This trite
Phantom from a time I no longer remember

And still I cut Her
And still I gut Her
And still, She loves me.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Sarapin, in the year 831 AF.