Maybe

I should leave my hands ice cold,
Like they always are when I'm alone,
Getting up and now being bold,
I find no reason to atone.

Doors are open to peculiarity,
Scrupling yet peccant,
Eyes being the doorway to rarity.

Often do I bear the curse of being a pedant,
And my words are accused of barbarity,
Thus does my body seem cadent!