Anemoia, with a sense of utter detest,
Was I always predisposed to ruins?
Had I known the ways of these monsters,
Would I be a human in blue inks.

Never were creatures perspicuous,
Neither presentable, nor steadfast.
They feed on emotions, flee with pride,
A blend of psychotic indecisiveness but  compast.

Zemblanity or serendipity,
Overflown with animosity,
Notions in abundance, ambivalent in abhor,
The presently hiccup in complexity.

Arcane they call me,
Oblige to that, they enjoin me,
Foxing of books, rusting of window panes,
They do feel like umami.