Vestige Of My Nepenthe

The tormented woe of a soul in need.

Begone thou, the tormentor of my intractable past,
As the numinous winds have not yet sung my dirge,
Before the subtle whims of surcease that roam vast, 
Truncating my odyssey in the tempest and scourge.
Piteous days of lament and melancholy follow me,
Beyond my Plutonian chambre glum and haunt'd,
By the pallid spectres of nightmares I cannot flee,
And a contemptible craven in me that had daunt'd. 
Countless are plaintive voices drowning my sanity,
Enduring in the sublunary desuetude of my being,
Where the doors to Elysium close with drear reality,
The barmecidal respite of guilt I curse upon seeing.
Thus, harrowing echoes of such a damnable demise,
In the lorn vestige of my nepenthe, I truly despise.