Past the verge of insanity,
an angel wept for surcease.
Morning never came,
and he drowned in grief;
for afterlife has forsaken him,
and now he shall meet no peace.
In the cage of his mind, torments of the night,
his nightmares shall not pass.
“O angel, thou beholdest but through stained glass!”
cried the viper who, enthralled, hissed his lullaby.
“Thy crown of thorns bestoweth the secrets of the ancient ones,
but alas! Thy tears pervade and thou shunnest them like bane,
hoping that they be carried away like mud under the rain.
Thou, heavenly being, deserveth not the wings
for which many have died to reach!
If thou deemest thyself so frail,
bleed into this vial, surrendering thy power to my being hollow.”
