Diatribe

Through the terrors of the day,
Through the beams of the ray,
I wilt and fret.
Through the bliss of the night,
Through the finesse of the quiet,
I reign and revolt.
Against what, you ask?
The shenanigans of living, perhaps?
The laws and wrecks of thoughts?
Who can say?
This is a diatribe of existence.
A discourse of attempts.
This is a rant of a poet,
Not a poetry, nor an art.