In my strange and withdrawn existence
Pulses a riddle
Authorized by light and
Confirmed by darkly truths.
I ponder such things, the dreary and
Unmourned
Secrets we share
With gods we doubt.
During such nocturnal expeditions,
I feel pangs of thunderbolt gloom,
A precocious cynic springing in me, saying
ALL THIS DEATH IS PROOF THAT WE LIVE.
The inescapable futility of changing minds
Steeped in a dependence on fallacies is but
To follow the audacity of the fearful.
And it’s folly to find solace in vengeance,
To dwell in shadows of day-dreamt revenge.
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