Upon a scalloped splintered throne,
room enough for skin and bone,
beneath a clinging lead cloak dwells
a heart beating forth
from shadows' darkened well.

Here reigns low the sound of
melancholy's black velvet bell
whose tone sustains the torment
of a silent soul's refrain:
a munted, numbing, muted theme,
despair's  plangent  lament.

This reverie of subtle force
depriving hope's desire
presses mournful tears of self-defeat---
leaving sallow days of same and sorrow,
draining dreams of evermorrow.

P. Suess