Penthos

It was a tranceful glomeration of private envisagement, induced by some aural pilferage of a distant dirge, that made my soul, pathetically weary. I could not, astutely fathom the provenance of that darkly music, beyond its depressive echoes of lament, but its poignance was no less, exquisite. It is as if, it culled indigenously from the abeyant propensity of miscible temperament, some fetal offspring of sentiment, and drenched it in the black seas of misery. Night after night, it became more conspicuous and its influence, more malignant. I found that, it was an uncanny nocturne of tragic evanescence, and my brain, had by means decadent, and doubtful, become the poltergeist of interest. In the words of Dickinsonian Romanticism, I may have said there was a funeral in my brain, and yet, I vainly accosted myself, of any avowal, pertaining to the very attribute of its presence. The music had at length relinquished, like a nightmare, when upon that night of emancipation, from the piercing talons of dreariness, I lifted my wrist, to behold, a gushing incision, as I lay, in the cold waters of my tub.