Oh, how cruel a fate it is,
To gain hope from void assumptions,
For it all amounts to horse piss,
But nonetheless it curdles ones imaginations.
Guile created from ones own mind.
A goal, impossible to attain yet continue to find.
If love, beith abstraction illusion.
Hope the manifestation of delirium.
Oh, high empryn. What love of pure blessedness can your high ruler endow me with,
But literary devices which are in my usage,
Is simply the context of garbage.
ab