Tragedy Has Struck My Mysticism

The storm blazes through the windows,
Droplets of rain touch the surface 
Of the chair in which I sit, filled with sorrow.
But it isn't every day the heavens fall out of grace,
Nor is it often that I mirror thy frowning face.
And for once, I long for the ever promise of contentment
But is then met with the wickedness of abandonment.

So, is it possible to wallow in one's self-pity
When faced with their own monstrosity?
Oh, am I no longer wearing the mask of Mighty Achilles?
Or may it be that my poor soul has greeted Lord Hades?
Has it finally succumbed to the loud dark storm
Which soaks every bit of emotion and squeezes far, oh, begone?

The tragedy struck as my mysticism reached its dramatic end,
Devoid of any joy that Euphrosyne may have mercifully sent.