Oh, what a vain, wretched hopes I had standing in that cold
ossuary. What delusion had led me to
believe my mistress still drew breath.
I’d seen the cold, pallor of her face.
The sightless gaze of her flat, unmoving eyes. She had gone into that place all souls fled
when the mortal coil was shed.
Yet, here I was.
Standing at her vault in the dead of night, believing with all my
pathetic soul that she had not really fled this world. Stranger yet, I could not say why I thought
she still lived. Not with any clarity or
understanding that would yield any meaning should anyone inquire.
Such a folly it had been, becoming so intimately acquainted
with my mistress. Her siren’s allure
drew me as surely as Odysseus, only I had no sailors to restrain me from answering
that tantalizing call. Surely, I have
met a doom worthy of Homer’s epic at the hands of my mistress. And, still, I stand at this mausoleum, this
sanctuary of death, and hope for a life that has utterly destroyed mine.
Oh, what wretched hopes.
