Sour

Alright, so I might write - though this sentence despite
it can't measure my pleasure or encapture this treasure.
But can I stress that I feel blessed? I'll put that to the test,
By allowing my word to be heard and conferred,
I feel slightly different - less ignorant? Think on it.
Twould be remiss if I insist on relying on a list,
Of lessons and expression all reliant on this session.

Instead I shall admit that it gets harder to submit,
To this act and counteract, as if I'm bound to a pact.
Though I'm suffering, a witch-king, cursing every little thing,
I play the part of winner when at heart I feel a sinner.

Through analysis, dialysis - condemned to my paralysis!
Decisions and revisions that will never be reversed.
To round the sound, at last! - and yet lie buried in the ground,
Of foes they long since captured whilst I lay trapped in rapture.

Though at best this beast is snared - beware! He has a baleful stare,
That will sour and devour at the faintest change in power.
The farce is past - so have a blast! He's yet to kick your arse.
The mask you wear have strength to bear against what he will ask.