Letter to the weak character

I adored your shape as a bottle of red wine, But, close to spirit, you are the larger words and straight lines, Thus crashing between logic and sense, Whereas you, have been sold your soul to dark side. There’s a commoner who cried to the cruel nature, Who doesn’t appreciate the hunk’s armature, Behold the truth, of the words, from the madman Who talks with the tense of being mature: “Being mature, is turning the mirrors Into the windows.” I been not to hesitated to searching truth, As I look at the abstruse words of a tooth, You never learn how to baulk or fend off the climature. Alas, my fellow arch-pessimist, Whom hither the gray zone, thither the lebensgefahr.