The hollow will is an open empty pit full of fret,
only a vague imbecile grieve on a dead maggot,
it's a conceited sentiment bloated with ego,
vain egotistical being dressed with fashionable grim.
How vague my symptoms of frigid infirmity,
the cold stare I notice is a bow of death,
in my deep black humungous severance,
have I lay my soul in glacial of unrepentant feelings.
