Misfortune Denied

This is the longest poem (may be not by content, but by style) I have come up with. I wanted to make this into a kind of "singable" poem; didnt succeed completely though... written around the same time as the Bathos. Again, this one has the classical language.

Misfortune Denied

I sit to weave a solemn raiment
To contain the sea of my lament
Of sorrows long forgotten
Yet, still stung this moment.

Perches a creature
Upon my nape
Morbid in appearance
Hideous in shape.

He Begins to gnaw at hope
And begins to bruise my pride.
The onset left me numb
And flung me aside.

Pointed ears, long nose
Beady eyes, raised brows
Bat-like wings, ugly claws
As I look, a sly smile grows

Who art thou and why dost thou come unto me--
I enquired.

He replied:
Abhorrent and cunning mate
Yet, bowed in awe and held great
Ever so early, never late
I am the wretched ill-fate.

A menace beyond time
And a shadow forever dark,
A ravenous hunter ever,
I seldom miss my mark.

Subtle are my makings
Though never a praise,
Whole Kingdoms vanish
With just a wily gaze.

Weapon of Gods and Demons
No loyalty doth I know
Ever in the hearts of men
Despair doth I sow.

I am the glory,
I am the twist,
I am the satire,
The lucid I mist.

Harken to me, O Mortal!
For I am upon thee now,
And soon, I shall enslave thee
To Me then, thy will shall avow.

Unmoved, I said:
Nay lord!
I'd bow at Thy power
And be as Thou would see,
But for the one I am,
Wretched than Thee.

In me, Thou shall find
Only pride entangled;
Base will fit for none,
And conscience mangled

O Nefarious One!
I shall sing songs of glory
Hallowed to Thee alone,
Neither God nor Devil
I answer to Thee alone.

Wilt Thou take me Lord
As Thy thrall, as Thy slave?
And take me, as Thy vassal,
Beyond the mortal grave?

At that, His pride shook,
And His might stirred.

And He roared:
Enough! Thou lowly mortal!
Thy doom shant haggle with thee.
Yet in truth thou spake,
Thou art, indeed, wretched than Me!

No vassals do I take,
To thy sorrow I leave thee hither.
He then spat upon me
And flew away elsewither.

As I resume to gather
Shreds of my gloom,
Neither well nor ill
No fortune graces my doom.

Kedar.