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.