The shadows stretch before him. On he treads
Through roads unseen and paths of no remark –
A gentle garden spins within his head
And fades into a dream of dreary dark.
This moon is cold to every human anguish
That burns his eyes to searing, lonely tears
And the stars are floating yet so lost and languid
Far from his wounded heart and endless fears.
He used to study volumes of the night
Uncurtaining our solemn earth, only to feel
A yearning and a poisonous delight
For the half-told stories that it would reveal.
This time, he stores away night’s fading skies
Almost making out the shapes of lands and seas.
He mumbles at the quick derisive light
Passing out in his own sick on Coney Street.