Blades of rue gouge me.
I lie but in dismay and ire.
Hang fire snaked and vexing.
Trust me, the dimwit bumbles.
From the blanket of grey clouds to The scorching beams of the sun
To the gloom of a silver moon.
Hope blazed like a slate,
I twitch infinite smirks,
To sidle my livid self.
A penultimate lie creeps.
His lour eyes dart me.
He is one but a nitwit lurcher.
Interminable aver,
Bile and bile my chump stealeth.
© Namaganda