From the Diary of a Scarred Soul

It is a cipher needs not to be told, Hostility of one’s soul whom ought to be sold. In every snap from that sane restraint, A fathomless rage no saint could paint. Desolation from the angst of suppression Strungled by thine own abomination, Even for that aqueous elixir from grief, Which flows from the eyes of so-and-so’s belief. Might be a whine for clemency, Be not appraised but hear thine story. It is a cipher needs not to be told, Hostility of one’s soul whom ought to be sold. May that soul be cured For long it has endured.