My heart sinks,

Far too deep for hope methinks,

Why must my soul wail in grief?

In the cumbersome sorrow that I'm buried beneath,

It seems these murky waters will be my tomb,

As almost was my mother's womb,

Orpheus is happy lark compared to my horrid fiends;

Morpheus withholds the precious mirth of my dreams,

Woe gouges its frozen talons into my bones,

And creates such despair, as if from Hecate's tomes,

I look upon day in sinful envy,

And curse the stars with ever fiber within me,

I rant and curse the Queen-Moon that Night doth adore;

I yell and tear my hair, and call her a whore,

For they all possess archaic light and sweet beauty,

Yet here: I am consumed by a phagic wight, and no lusty radiance pursues me,

I shot my goals from Determination's bow,

In Pride I shot too high, and the past blew my arrow low,

Down I fell from that enlightened plane,

The mind's fruit emptied to the drain,

As Lucifer to God did himself forsee,

So must I witness what I may never be,