Morpheus's miasima has eluded
his atrophied
eyes that peer into the saturated
sky, who's
sanguine sun has stopped her fervid bloodletting
and her penitence has petrified inside her hydrogen heart,
and his Stygian sprits rise from their tenebrous hell,
gathering around his sylvan
sepulchre, hymns threaded with
sadistic severance
and waxed with masochistic malevolence,
they teethe the vestiges of his
sanity and heave
it into the filaments of the abyss
--his future abode,
he's an accursed, sacrilegious Solomon who has penned over the sacred Scriptures
to write personal epiphanous Ecclesiastes revealed by his
hellish
harbingers of death in a myriad of psychedelic
phantasmagorias that rend his soul,
but longsuffering is he, bearing fruit
that shall liberate humanity from the bulk of
his sins, only by his willpower will he insure eons after
his immutable marytrdom shall the future
proclaim his name to all of his mortal realm
and perhaps rewrite his destiny
predetermined
by his capricious deities