I laugh at you love
Scourge from above
No olive-bearing dove
It is; it is rough as crag
None should brag of it's presence
It's opalescence a fraud, a treason
It's effervescent incense a poison to reason
Its own counterpart to the semblance of pleasing
Wreaking first heaven then havoc, in their own time and season

A curse upon those who with it are smitten
For upon fell parchment was its name first written
In a dark ink, forged with blood and brine
Of the souls it would milk in later times
Misfortune wove it, and in it winds
The lines to destruction and demise

It seems, yet and still, I cannot countermand
The lingering notion that its slithering hand
Has burned upon me a charmed and fiery brand
And remain I in pursuit, with the rest of the damned

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Mayan, in the year 326 AF.