Stygian

What dark! To me is but a path of light

A friend in disguise, a hand in might

A cure of solitude, a happiness within

A song unsung, when the tune did begin. 

But what for happiness be

For the mirth of us hides in the stygian? 

But what for the melancholy we see? 

Thus to no mystery is this uneven. 

Mystery? 

Let the sky show how big the universe is

And explain to thee the unevenness

For the mystery exist be unfruitful, no bliss 

And answer known to no more than a mere guess.