A Dream: On Death

If for some reason, breath abandones me And pipes in pride to muse an eldern glow Then think I past the odds of chastened glee That breath is prime in death as seconds grow. When past the borders stretched behind a gate A saint be asking "how o how o how" I shall engage discourse to mock this Fate And curse "be made to flee, I plead thee now". When strong remains he, "die", I say there hence And watch the being embrace a smokey form I shall then sing a plea of dusk-silence While wings affright my game in uniform. Perhaps I must despoil a room in Hell Or wait upon the Lord to death, counsel.