Hear of me, dear hypocrite, the song of aversion
when it rises among the clouds of hypocrisy
gripping the drops of the lewd
quivered from the tongues of the stink.
Of me hear the expert yells
screamed by the extents of periods
and the times,
in the fake of times
heap in the nothing of hours.
And when you sip your cursed sips
in the curses of your morning,
resides a slight noon in the blood
of your boredom
to blacken the stillness
of your night.
And when you are about to love
someone crushed in your heart
or damaged at the cancer of your soul
know this lovely realm is nothing but hate
repeating its existence.
