Pity naught the fool who stood agape at the mouth of the abyss,
Who henceforth became a delirious, demented *******.
For very few are those who return from the precipice
Left with scars  that are all but a trifle.

‘Tis not fire that burns, that brings about anguish.
‘Tis not rain that drowns, that brings about pain.
A sanguine dullard will forever seek to diminish
What a benighted scholar will endeavor to sustain.

Hath thee the prudence
To discern the ciphers
In the deafening silence?
In the earsplitting whispers?

The fiends,
Their eyes
Of sordid coal
Conceal the truth
Of what they are after.
Their forlorn cries beseech the soul
With venom as clear as polished lacquer.