So far have I now traveled,
Too far I've been long gone,
And my feet a dusty rattle,
Have laid tracks upon the floor.
I sought shelter from the cold,
In mind-numbing occupation,
Sought reprieve from mad, gasping pain,
By drenching all thought in the rain.
But now I sit before a vacant sky,
And see not the beauty others would find,
It seems to me a pretty, painted lie,
And so I return to my weary trudge and grind.
She weeps, the one he loves,
And I must pass her still,
A faded image against the back drop of my own departed love,
I have no time for passing fancy, or for visions black.
My mind recoils from words which foolish lips would speak,
And breathless; I stand before a door which opens at the close,
And when life is but a toil at shift's end,
I would see that door opened wide,
To usher me into a familiar, warm, and silent night.
I pass the beaches, calm and serene,
A mad-dash echo of my heart's disease,
For the sun will never warm me,
Nor glad hearts my soul restore thee.
For you have passed and were but a dream,
And I, stuck in this waking realm have seen,
No sorrow pass before my door,
That would lift when shared by your cursed storm.
Is it love, or madness, when neither is at hand?
And how shall I overcome this quiet madness in the end?
But now it matters not, I think, as I a weary traveler commence,
Be it dawn or dusk before my door,
Cruelest elements and sad laments,
I shall ever progress, progress, progress.
Into this great, vast emptiness.
To view a world which sold itself,
For pity, and for quiet thoughts,
And I will find adventure in myself,
Until lost have I become,
In this madness I have run.
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