Nor in the countenance of my beloved.
I care no more for beauty of sound,
Not even for the cleanliness I loved.
The rhythm of word and note,
Inspires not my feet.
Even the words of my teachers,
Like bitter medicine I treat.
Cry havoc in my brain,
Dissatisfied I turn to excess
Of mirth, games and grain.
Fasting and exercise, such panicked attempts at penitence. But every fibre of me resents these insults to my sentience.