It’s almost like
There could be blissful
Amidst
The conflictual
Phantasmagoric
Abyss
Like a day
I don’t want to die
Nearly as much
The resultant
Residual
Remnant of trust
I’ve adjusted
According
To where she would stand
Were I poor,
Powerless
With no titles and land
Just a man
With a hand
For composing discord  
With this pain as my shield
And this pen as my sword