The Mystic Subconscious

High above my lonely perch, the winter muse begins her search. My cave the mind is shut to all, even that of the muse's call. Beckon forth the tales of old, let me taste that bitter cold. With delicate hands and tired feet, I only pray for death to meet. The dark abyss is always near, it shuts my tearful eye's with fear. The goddess muse is seductive and kind, a shame that there is me she find. The thrown in mind is not for a king, but only that which the abyss will bring. There's an altar for a table, and an old woman for a fable. Her story's ill that never end, its death's incarnate voice she send. So listen hag, your voice is blind, Your sisters heart is pure and kind. The muse you sought is lonely now, Lost and seeking and always how? How can we all make amends? By killing off these mortal trends. So that’s the answer the truth at last, Give all in to the evil cast. Send out calls of unknown power, Let them taste the bitter and sour.