Chagrin

The woe of a poet's misery.

'Tis an anathema to accept my pain,
And to remain in my dire sufferance,
In the desolate and eternal torment,
Intricat'd then in my vigilant instinct.

A serf of the conscience that exists,
Amidst the refuge of my temporance,
With a terrible and placat'd isolation,
Which traipses aimlessly and distinct.

The desir'd gaiety and mere revelry,
Abandon'd within the genuine veracity,
In naïve fancies and useless promises,
Within an essence pristine and present.

The constant inducement to discover,
A dismay straying in obvious mendacity,
When I submerge in countless minutiae,
In a quandary of regret that is frequent.

Such an anguish'd spirit void'd of volition,
That ingenious stranger too ambiguous,
For my misery is troubling to explicate,
And consequently more miscellaneous. 

Behold the sombre brume of my domain,
Where my chagrin is now presumptuous,
Beside an intolerable reality I must endure,
That of my horrid misfortune deleterious.