"Why looks my lord husband so deathly in mourn?

Why dost thy tears fall in such ebony streaks?

Why dost thy sorrow leaves my heart so dreadfully torn?

O' Sheridan, speak now if thou wish to spare the rose of my cheeks.

Silver now is that skin, which once the bloom of manly radiance show'd

Scarlet are those eyes in somber gloom, which abyssal presence truly grow'd

Why—in the silent hour of rest—dost thou in terror shriek?

From my study hall, I hear thy tugs for breath

To thy Gwyneth, oh Sheridan speak,

For I sense the nightmarish power pulling you away with icy hands of death."

"Oh Gwyneth, how shall I relate

The severe anguish that I endure?

Uncommon is this strange fate,

All because my soul is no longer pure.

A feeling of humanity—in my consciousness—has become no more,

Stolen away from me is the remorse in my heart,

Along with the feeling of virtue that I once bore

All of my humanities, which made me feel alive, have drifted apart.

In spite of my wonting power,

Fate has granted me with the nocturnal glaive,

On the fall of this midnight hour,

And drag my soul to the silent grave."

"But say, my Sheridan, what's the source

Of this despair, and all thy care.

Thy tears stream like a tainted course,

Which galls my bosom with a trembling scare.

Surely this can be no common pain

Surely this can be no common stress

Speak, unless this world is drenched in dark clouds of rain,

That soon, thy Gwyneth's heart shall rest."

"Oh Gwyneth, 'tis a horrid source,

Oh Gwyneth, 'tis a dreadful care,

That, raptor-like, my body gnaws with despair,

And galls my bosom with no remorse.

Young Frédérick, my once dear friend,

But recently he resigned his breath,

With others in Telepsychosis I did him attend,

Unto the silent manor of death.

"For him I mourn'd, for him I wept,

Paying all to friendship that was long due,

But pensively I barely slept,

Thy Sheridan, he shall follow him too!

I shall follow him to the gloomy tomb,

In the name of human art or skill,

No power of mine can save me from this doom

For this is fate's immutable will.

"Young Frédérick, my once dear friend,

But now a specter from my deathly eyes,

Forever his haunting malevolence extend

Until the fast approaching of my demise.

From the dreary manor of the dead,

From the crypts that harbored the ghastly tomb,

In those entrails of gloom doth the ghost of Frédérick roam,

And tumor'd is my soul with that punishing dread!

"Here, vested in infernal guise,

By means to me not understood,

In my hand the razor lies,

Opening away my pale neck!

Pouring from the wound my obsidian life,

Only to regenerate the fountain of my heart!

Oh Gwyneth, Gwyneth, dearest wife!

How utterly thoughtless is my smart!

"And then, from my slumber of dreamless ore,

Stands before me the malicious maiden,

And to my knowledge, this was of no occasion,

For she is the Divine Whore!

Gahlraah, is the harlot's unholy name!

Nocturnal is her lecherous influence,

Her obsidian blood flows through my inhuman veins

Granting me retribution for my unbearable negligence.

"But oh, my Gwyneth, dearest wife!

The keenest minutes hath last remained

When my scarlet eyes glow in fury, I soon shall seek thy life,

Thy blood—by Sheridan—shalt be spilled in horrid pain!

But to end this Harlot's temptation,

While my mind is slowly taken by Her dream,

Free my soul from Her nocturnal damnation,

And sever my head with a razor clean.

"Yes, you may show reluctance,

Yes, you may show sorrow,

But you, my beloved Gwyneth,

Will save my life before the morrow."

In the late-night poor Gwyneth sate,

watched by her solemn, anguished lord,

In the late night she mourned his fate,

The very essence whom her soul adored.

Then, at dawn's waking hour, Gwyneth stood,

Gripping the razor her lord wielded with such dread,

And with one swipe, her lord husband's head rolled at her foot.

Obsidian were the tears that fell from Gwyneth's eyes,

For she too has felt the darkness of Lady Gahlraah's hands,

Not only for her Sheridan's demise,

His black blood drenched her feet at which she stands.

Bright was the sun that rose,

In its immense light lady Gwyneth cried,

Illuminating her hidden woes,

The newest woe being her lord husband died.

Gifted to her the ebony marks

For the reward of her deathly release

Streaked like tears upon the gothic arch

Now that her lord husband knows peace.