There is no ‘game’ in ‘endless’.
There is no ‘you’ in ‘I’.
If I were as relentless,
I should be nigh on shy.
An eldritch screech in silent anger,
My heart of hearts in fruitless wrath;
A thousand choirs’ piercing clangour
Arises from the sanguine cloth.
There is no ‘frame’ in ‘ruthless’.
There is no ‘I’ in ‘you’.
A story told so truthless,
It would be nigh on true.