Into the arms of Morpheus

as Helios descends
in the west, eastern
shadows grow
beneath, and
all the world’s colour
thickens to an inky murk
the substance from which fears
are borne
through the Netherworldian gates
to lead the wary
by melodious verse
into the arms of Morpheus
recumbent, sensitive
to the opiates of sleep
carried from the mortal loft
to Hypnos’ cradle, to float in anticipation
of the submergence, encircled
by chasmic walls that rise
to press against the light
a living heart
beats as though a beacon, calling
to the abyssal
like so many moths
that converge upon a flame
absent of the fear of consequence
the many daughters of Nyx
flit through the fade, succubi
to a responsive host
dull in the ambrosial swoon
the quarreling sons of Erebus, sound
as distant drums of a retreating storm
a contestation, to and fro,
which of whom should snip
the conscious thread, and
send this blessed pauper
to mire under Charon’s watchful eyes
on the shores of Styx.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

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