Poet, Transmuted

One day I believe I’ll melt away, Deeply asleep,
Simply fall unto myself, a heap of reeking dreams,
And become something so terrible, beautifully,
Because my bleeding heart yet seeps eager poetry,
A font of misery in deserts of apathy,
So travelers can drink Deep of me and grow weary,
Drowning in the reverie of a sad memory,
Until they, too, sleep, grow still, and become part of me.

Prompt: From H-, “If you were a monster, what would you be?”