I call to the air, a solemn symphony
In my fitful wake of nocturnal despair
Hear me here, you spirit of dolor grey
A fearsome foe: succubus of somber souls.
The reaper of my sorrow,
Sung the eulogy of my affair:
“Despair? Think not.
Thoughtless, ye agony in rot.
Though a soul of yours
Well worn and fought,
But thy foe I am not!”
Faithless of life, led forever to die.
Why? Birthed a bastard lie?
Left in the void to wait my time?
What purport to yoke, rendered in rhyme?
Quick he sowed a sickly seed,
Of a sudden repose to rap in my head:
“Death is I.
Of such agony, I too ask why?
For what is life,
But a phantasm of death.
A summoned sphere of God’s fetid breath.”
Fetid indeed, a sphere such as this
Why render holy, a hell of heavens design?
Help me here, Harold of Hope.
Slash thy sickle at the chains of Time
And fate shall rest with these hands of mine.
“Yes, the foe you now see.
Hold my hand in recant of
The life you now leave.”