Bitter be; bitter me.
          Stricken and mangled
                    by thoughts.
          Bombed and bullied
                    through their circuits of
                              lies.
          Can it be the days
                    that cease my amusement?

Marginal diminishing utility
          in the quotient of
                    happiness and
                              rotations of the Earth?
Or is it the shadows
          that cloud my judgment?
Ringing signs of death
          that we bare not lead to ponder.
Being alive;
          an object called
                    hope
                              that yields will
                                        to puncture opportunity.
Infertile as such
          the word
                    gazes to the stars
                              and gives
                                        only a glance back
                                                  to jest.
Digress and flatter
          for this meaningless laughter
                    you see before you is
                              life.