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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.
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