Melancholia: A Choice

Ephialtes (1633)

In slumber, was I, undoubtedly,
In Ephialtes' haunting hold!
Despite nocturnal consciousness,
I felt the night grow old.
For since my first awakening,
Crimson from the womb,
Hypnos forsook me!–left me lying
Wakeful, in this Tomb.
Forlorn, residing with this terror,
As the life of a well-born,
No carl could fathom the burden of having
A reputation savagely torn.
For Death did claim a carl, himself,
In this tragic instance.
Thanatos appeared to collect his tax,
And revoked my wig-maker's existence.

Just before the lavish banquet,
I required a sightly disguise.
But as Pestilence slew my wig-maker,
'Twas not only his, but my demise.
So perilously, a peruke without,
I greeted the tragedies of their stares,
And upon my coming, the visitants smiled
But shunned the minuscule hairs,
Plastered over that twinkling patch
Of nude skin that screamed,
'How dare thou leavest me indecent,
I am no longer unseen!'
Yet 'twas not the stretched and screeching hairs,
Which provoked a sleepless night.
T'was when I approached the fair hostess,
And cursed her with my sight.

I bent to press a gentle kiss
To her silken skin,
And she contemplated the sparkling white,
For her gaze went sour with sin.
O, the dawn waves her hand,
As the Kings wake to their wives,
While I, with a peasant's skull,
Still laid awake and Ephialtes survives.
A mare's luxuriant locks resist
Diminishing clumps of black–
Entered, the beaming chamberlain,
Bringing actuality back.
Alas! These words were designed to snarl,
Too late this disguise arrived,
Blast me thrice, O wicked demon,
The merciless Ephialtes survived!