One if by verse two if by dream

The declivity of time declines into
Stygian deeps but this depth is
no deeper than my dismal mood.
Misery drinks the sun dry and I?
I seek surcease in poetry but have
yet to find that elusive treasure that
will bring my glass to measure.

I lose myself in gloomy tales
of fallen grandeur and travel
long ruddy rivers where in the end
love is neither lost nor won.

An eagle soars
by mountain high.
A rainbows arch spans
the sky.

Yet I no better for verse
contemplate
self-annihilation.

I immolate my mind by satanic
metal depredation.
However like unto some
neurotic virtuoso I am shaken
but not stirred to life by terror
of the night.

An inmate of graveyard mood
trapped in lachrymal lassitude,
I finally decide to employ pen to pelt
away my blues.

Indulging in a bit of vers-libre
My pelf is poor at first but
soon I develop quite the thirst
for wordy burst of hyperbole.

What came first poetry or the dream?
Whether poetry brought the dream
or the dream brought the poetry?
I do not know.
But it came with a sinister scurrying of
skeletal rats,
dressed in tuxedos and black hats.
Then the wormy partition parted.
And once more,
all was right with the world.