These lines drew lines of despair in my heart,
And the indented edges made it porous, so it’s devoid
I fastened myself so long on a tree, so thorny
And the thorns pierced deeper, I stay.
These lines are blighted and condemned to their vices,
These lines filled with depravity cast spell of lone,
These lines bewilder the mind of who made them,
And betray the soul which fostered them.
Though times and seasons pass like a flood in the ditch,
It declensions are so broad of barbarous darts,
The fagot are made to slay warriors and warlords,
Are lines made to slaughter the poet?
Round and up, and down thus my head-mind goes
From unprecedented axis to untraditional cardinals,
The pace's expedition is so ergo derisively brutal,
Possessed by roe and woe, I made these cursed lines.
By 
© 16/02/2018
Image source: https://google.com/