Veins of spilt wine.

With time comes paradox and its riddle, a malformed poem crafted to puzzle the poet convinced of it's insignificance, his frustration stigmatized by capricious alienation. And subtle intricacies emerge incognito from tense silence, this mordant chasm: An absence of bliss, strung-out on methedrine, intolerant of things foolish, mundane, bones sucked dry, left Devoid of substance. Devoid of substance and wrenched, a rogue of the gallows without chance, solaced by knowing the exact date and time his feet shall death dance in an embrace of apathetic emptiness-- intransigent, a ghostly-grim humorist rebel disciple of the passive fist. There's little worth enduring in the company of solitude, disgruntled, occupied with melancholic dreams of self-realization, self-idealization, or resigned to idle contemplation, driven, by scorn and an appetite for self-loathing. Noetic thorns prick fingertips, willow-stanced in retreat. Thoughts stem from an undertow urge to be the victim, despite vulgar bravado-- my will to engage foemen in confrontation countermined, left Devoid of substance. Devoid of substance and wrenched, loud-mouthed, distant, a rogue of the gallows stooped in stance, content to mock death and dance, intransigent; a ghostly-grim humorist suffocated by pessimism.