What's It Take To Wake You?

Once upon a midnight, splendid;

As a daemon of dreams,

Beside his grave, I spied the storms

That strode past the horizon.

Cracks of black lightning descended,

Cast out by ashen steeds,

Bore sore chords of brass horns, crossed swords,

And feinds, abhorred, that ride them.

My finger's grip bites through his flesh,

Soon, I'll see his hand's skill;

Hear his melody - delicate.

But will he know when to rise?

A sigh of spice pervades his breath,

Downy locks, chocked with dill.

Failed is my try to vellicate;

This arrives as no surprise.