Tis like the Mind suffers fever,
To illumine so bright, it blinds,
Chittering madness, all it finds,
Laughter from some great deceiver.
O how Heart shatters in its strain,
Pulsing, unthinking convulsion
Of the perpetual motion,
A dance of life lived in vain.
Where now are the rewards I seek,
Of restful, sweet oblivion,
The gentle call of deep stygian,
Within those depths, my Soul can sleep.
Discarded Recollections 