Brume Of Incertitude

I dread an eerie dirge of my surcease,
When my cumbrous soul shall grieve, 
In immur'd walls of a phantasmagoria,
With demons of the stygian Abaddon.

Have the stately seraphim of Aidenn 
Abandon'd me within my hour of need,
Or hath a wind of the sublunary world
Obfuscat'd me in the maze of riddles?

Hast thou not seen my countenance
Of such unbearable woe and qualm,
In my eyes of a sorrow and despair,
Drowning in that quaff of nepenthe?

O I hark the infinite hymns of praise
Of the gentle paean of the immortals,
Where true gardens of bliss are seen,
By the angels of heaven greeting me. 

The celestial trumpets of guardians,
Are heard blaring in fields of eternity,
That comfort my odyssey with hope
Of the wondrous fate that awaits me.

Avaunt, the phantasm of my despair,
For I shall not falter before my death,
As those wings of life breathe the birr
That shall rid the brume of incertitude.