A yuletide season spent alone
further serves as fodder for the misanthrope
to spout his hatred
as he has his whole life
spitting venom and dragging down souls
What if his ivory tower cracks
and plummets in his pool of cash?
Has the wealth he's managed to amass
brought a single shred of happiness
or spared him from an ounce of woe?
I don't believe it has
Save for the comforts that it grants
He's penniless in bliss
May he beg for redemption of the ghastly hand
To salvage what is left
of this morally bereft
empty, broken man
"No specter that I've met have I ever feared more"