Over the ridge called revelry,
The sycophants and sorry seeds,
Acurse the axis, and her needs,
Along the broken moors.
The trumpet calls on satyrs grove,
Tempt the fair skinned silver love
To hover close, and golden dove,
The summon of the old ways.
Wailing wisdom from the rocks,
Across the acrid waters deep,
Forsworn the souls the soils keep,
And answer do the sailors.
And up upon the haloed rocks,
The infants on the stepping stone
Enchanting mystic, gnawing bone,
The incidents unnoticed.
Beneath the steppes, under bay,
The Barons of the tepid tombs,
Around the orbs of solace glooms
And seeking shelter call out.
Revealed the lower waiting pools
For haunting nights,in holy sight,
Design the nightmares false light
Charon whispered hence:
(And I did abhor)
“Death Is life without a cure,
And reaping lost, reveal the pure,
We count your days until we see,
Last breath caught and slipping,
If to God or me you know,
Or yet the seas of souls you go,”
And over those hills still climbing;
I now ascend that twining peak,
Suffering Looking oft,
He boatman smiled soft,
And Heaven opened hence.