Songs for the Destitute

Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such a lot the gods gave to me—to me, the dazed, the disappointed; the barren, the broken. And yet I am strangely content, and cling desperately to those sere memories, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the other.

The birds have flown away Leaving me by myself I came for salvation But even here I'm alone No sanctity, no sanctuary Nothing to save me from myself Nothing but the dark woods and the dim light escaping from the sky Follow the trails To the end of time To the end of life To Solace Even my dreams left me To drown in the rain Crawl in the mud And follow the light Where once I found solitude I only found death Not even my mind Protected me from myself My curse was not lifted I was left to die again

For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass