I fear not that my words will never grace….
And yet I dread this fast approaching dawn;
I see the minutes and the hours pass;
For dawn is yet the only constant thing
That rips me so unkindly from my pace.

Though never is my reason thus forgone;
This Lighted Spectre haunts me–this Impasse–
This Waking Nightmare from beneath will spring.
Beneath the Earth this Pale Rider waits,
His Fiery Horses chafing; will have drawn

His Chariot’s Searing Livery–unsurpassed
In glory, any but Hyperion:
Shall stream His Burning Light; and gaining fast,
Will into Hypnos’ Waiting Arms, me cast.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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