Immured

Verily,here,is awaited fate. I,artificer of that which immures me, am befuddled by such hands that abate and augment 'mid its trice mellifluously. There is no such animal as time thrashing at one's mind with its keen ungual; ravishing ponder to despondent wonder. Hobbles and fetters of sullen hue embellish the aura of my silhouette. Verily,here,there is penance due for the catharsis of my soul's etiquette. Amongst miserable ululation from pederasts and recalcitrant knaves, I hearken my own lamentation, And to my heart's resound I am but a slave. There is no such animal as fate, laden on one's pate with heft of loathsome beast; ravaging blunder to a roseate ponder.