A Plethora of Mocked Vices

I writhe in ambiguity Though the past would send their best My will is lazily over-thrown As I build my own gallows I hit bedrock-- Yet still, frantically dig with more fervor My mind is an empire on the brink of collapse With Regret as my only ally I threw my aspiration to the wolves Dreaming is but a subtle luxury: 'My vivid hallucination of deceit' Pawns have put my king in check The side of life cries to me I feverishly run to my grave My heart is the product of my own dissent Indeed, my own Intention mocks me I am a puppet, sewn to these vices Comfort escapes from me My anxiety is the sum of a plethora of sins So, when will I be written out of the story?...