Bust Of The Mare

A young lady has a horrible phantasmagoria of the bust of a mare, in her chambre.

Sleep my fair maiden, for I shall accompany
Thee in thy nightmares, when the nights turn 
From an earthly pleasure into ghastly horror;
Caressing thy buxom bosom in licentious sin.

Feel the orphic wind of my Stygian breath, 
Haunting the perpetual soul of thy mortality, 
Thou shalt perceive with the vagary of time,
Reaching the red silk draperies and blankets.

Hark! The echoes of thy dirge the angels of 
Death blare, with abderian delirium and joy
Exuding through aphotic corridors of Topet,
Where thy loud cries shall deafen in sound.

Smell a stench of the marshes of desolation
mortals fear and perish in the barren abyss
Of the naught covering a brow of no-return.
Run my dear lass, for the night is yet young!

I wield the thoughts that consume thy mind
Thou canst not eschew in this maze of terror,
When the accurst bust of utter malevolence, 
Is alive before a temptation of devilish eyes.

In the following morning, the lone vestige of 
That fair maiden who dreamt my presence
Was found, in the nightgown she had worn,
By the odd silhouette of a bust of the Mare.