The Sober lie

Have thee come to pity?
frail mouth, dry of wine.
Thou, in sober muse,
wretched fits writes of thine.
Not of age that sleep calls,
nor the bells of sleuth,
nae anger waits for thee home
while thy mistress bathes in thy booth.....

For lack of better words.
I write with a disfigured mind, agitated and swollen, nor with laws, that bind, that give, that drives the consciousness, to slave reality, the falter of medium, this is my lie.

Hmmm maybe we deserve more