transient traces of hours Ephemeral—
yet, thy hast no taste, of defeat
in making me Detest, this pariahical abode;
where nightmares reside and dreams Decay
where Hope bleeds out—and Ceaseth,
on the barren wastelands,
of thy night-shrouded realm
YOU ARE READING
secrets from the lair
Poesíaan anthology of bad poetry, but who cares [the lowercase letters all throughout are intentional, they're not grammatical errors]
