Like a Siren weaving song From the lilt of choirs choking Where the vengeful dead Belong... To the Sorceress and Her charnel arts She swept from ebon towers at the hour of Mars 'Neath a star-inwoven sky latticed by scars To unbind knotted reins that kept in canter, despair Shod on melancholy, fleet to sanctuary there, In netherglades tethered where onyx idols stared Was it the Kiss of the mist That peopled the air with the prowess of absinthe? Lost souls begging resurrection From Gods upon their forest plinths Whose epitaphs read of re-ascending to win Remission from despair through a holocaust of sin...