Sporadically, I miss you,
Always, I need you,
My great comfort of the past, destroyed,
A snow soul turned to coal, no longer a soul, just a void.

Awake and therefore hating,
Everything but creating,
Made in the image and likeness,
Of this great chaos and detritus.

Your religion did debase my very nature,
It made moribund my might and lukewarm my temperature,
The thief in the night robbed me of hope by adumbrating that eschatological night,
And fate struck a deal with tyrannical tedium to dilute my delight.