Smokescreen

Shrouded in thy aphotic veil,
Thou followeth Life without fail,
Life bids adieu at thy cold caress;
O Death, thou art the cynosure of my consciousness!

Thou art the genesis of Styx, I hear.
From the dawn of Creation thou hast commanded fear;
But, O Death, this mortal wishes to unite
Her entity with thy aureole of twilight.

Thou holdest the vessel
From whither flows Lethe,
Souls revel in thy gardens
Where the narcotic Lotos breathe

I wish to drink of that Lethean spring
And feel the draft of Atropos' wings.
I, thy humble subject, ask of thee a gift -
In thy nightly barouche, Dark Queen,
Give me a lift.