Some say I'm just a regular poet,
A few say I'm the modern day Shakespeare,
They claim by my verse they doth know it,
That they can feel their emotion's state here,
But like sly Loki bound to that tree,
With vile, venomous liquid dripping slow,
Such is Life's rank, lifeless trunk bound to me,
An I am sickened by poisonous woe,
This rotting, rancid, raven orb of ours
Engulfs the sweet, luscious life of thine,
As swift as Baldr's death should come the hours
Of this world's end, should one's feeling match mine,
Pitiful is the course of blinded man,
For many doth my sorrow understand.