The Outcast's Out-lash

These feral masochistic trysts I hold,
Are born of pensive loathing and disdain.
For I am always filled with dismal pain,
From living life in discord with The Fold.
I find the hearts of men jejune and cold.
Their folly is the reason for their bane,
They glorify their waste, yet I'm insane?
How dare those fools begin to be so bold!


I'll make them bleed, succumb to languor yet.
They'll cry out while they writhe in agony.
But that won't make their hearts less dim or dull.
Appeasing of my fury only met.
The true solution I have yet to see.
This quandary forever I will mull.