Vices of life

Perhaps life's sanctity, and not its futility,

lies in dissolute irony.

For if it were non existent, so would be, expression.



To what worth do I condemn myself that my means and ends lay justified?

To what immorality and insanity do I adhere, so to abet my obsessions?

My finality, does not exist if not for my depraved reality,

and so I live on; with heightened sense of good,

naïve, for my life exhibits evil,

in which I revel with perpetual grief.



I panic at its petulant fragility.

It might be so, it never ends.

Albeit fervent, it isn’t in love,

and the hatred sears me blind.

I feel empty, pining for a sense of morose fulfillment,

it evades me, on a shallow premise,

for it never did exist, my elixir.



So here it lay, on truth,

parched, my loving reverie,

I would bid thee farewell, and kiss thee goodbye

but if only I could accept thee 'thatwise'.