To Mind, to Body, Rest

Tis like the Mind suffers fever,
To illumine so bright, it blinds,
Chittering madness, all it finds,
Laughter from some great deceiver.

O how Heart shatters in its strain,
Pulsing, unthinking convulsion
Of the perpetual motion,
A dance of life lived in vain.

Where now are the rewards I seek,
Of restful, sweet oblivion,
The gentle call of deep stygian,
Within those depths, my Soul can sleep.

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