Laundry blowing in plain view,
looks like it shall remain soiled,
collecting the bile you spew,
at conflict ever embroiled.

A palace of glass soon falls,
under a cascade of stone,
forever wander death's halls,
midst sickly taste of alone.

Rejoice in rhyme and your wit,
oh failed attempt at a wife,
pitiful, festering slit,
upon the stained wrist of life.

As your mind begins to rot,
I'll sit beside you and weep,
a kettle to a black pot,
having long sown what you'll reap.



Penned by my hand on the 24th of Phaestian, in the year 927 AF.