My poems are like whispers of a Devil, sublime –
too many cynical words with no decent rhyme,
weaving treason against the emptiness within
your wretched life as hollow as an apparent dream.
Each one is like a fang of my virulent thoughts,
with urgings to see through yourself to find the Naught,
dripping poison of frustration into your blood –
my poems are metered for both your brain and the heart.