An Imaginary Itinerary
The journey seem to be foretold
And my arrant voice swooned
By the satire that echoed down
Down, to the plaintive essence of nascence
And they thought my eyes were deserted,
My heart was insensate,
My ires were wretched
And when I was bleeding
They went on saying, that
My blood was unchaste.
They who decided me to be one of them
They foretold my journey
By the shadow of immorality
And moaned me to the path of a broken destiny.
I stood up alone, and alone I look up
They smiled, they clapped and they reveled
Back of me,
I walked alone, and I met myself
They provoked, they chatted and they brayed
Yet I went on alone.
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