Death follows me.

She follows me west to the Isles of Sleep.

She haunts my dreams with visions of the nighttime.

She bears me the fruit of Cypress Trees,

and bids me to walk with her in the darkness.

She gives me only for a companion, the young heart,

which walks beside me,

through the ancient graves of the ancient city

and submits me to share the stories

which I cannot recall.

And so haunted by fear

and wrapped in the cloak of my youth,

I press on through this illusory realm

wearing a veil of foreboding, and the face of a phantom lion.

Death follows me.

She follows me into my every dream.

She hinders my breath with her oppressive bosom.

She consigns me to liquid blackness,

and makes me to face the urn that is my bedchamber.

Breathing a little less

with each passing evening.