The witching hour has been devoured
and thunder grumbles mock me in this lair.
Jackals stalk and undead walk,
while lightning crackles are raising hackles
upon my fading graying hairs.
O' I long to put my weary bones away.
Yet, I dare not yield the field to slumber.
For there in lurking
a torrid tempest dwells.
A fear filled tempest so slovenly loathsome
that I must not misadventure into its griping pincers.
For surely once so stricken,
nothing may then quicken,
and bring to pound a pulse repulsed and sickened;
by the imposture who haunts and taunts in demon vision.
The imposture who reminds me why, my love
will never greet or meet or care.
For I love her in a fashion, that
smoldering in its passion,
defies the lies that otherwise, would put the cause of her demise?
Where reason cries and I deny, I cry why, Is it my,
hands that bear her blood!