There be Guilt at The Summit of The Sober Morrow
Eyelashes singe from grilling behind.
Bones ache, joints seized, unholy shrine.
Mouth arid akin to dust.
Raucous skull akin to rust.
Was it worth it?
Cloudy lucidity, hazy memories of words said.
Raising Diablo with sultry potions of dead.
Flashes of dancing... but I don't tread!
The horror, the dread...