Insignificant Bile

In its crystal it is hard and grown cold
It has no narcotic of shyness eyes
And molasses of the sympathetic speech
On bottom its remained there only gulp
Of captivity that enforce to behold
Haughtiness of own existance
And stream of bile
In plexus of a veins.

Carelessly numbed in the hand
He doesnt present to its owner
A joy and poisons sweet taste
Its transparency has devoured
Hordes of ten of the thousands ones
Who had despised the fury gallows
Has throwed away a lash of torment
Who named itself a semigod