The Crissing Crossing Seas

I hate you once.
I hate it twice.
I hate infinity
times the dunce.
I hate the ends
and all the means.
I hate the rhythmic,
beating schemes.
I hate this rhyme.
I hate my time.
I hate how useless
were my crimes.
I hate the ticking
tock of chimes,
and ringing of a bell's
recline.
I hate the lack of lover's light
and all the worthless
drunkards flight.
I hate the little left below,
and then I come to hate the show.
I hate the crissing crossing sea,
but what I hate the most of all
is what you left to find and be,
not once or twice or even three,
or even more or less it seems.
I hate and hate and cannot see
for this is what you left of me.