Disappointment seeps through every member of the wanderer’s body
And through every exhausted ventricle of his destitute heart
He’s done everything from the noble to infantile to the shoddy
Every effort rent to nothing by a lancing from Satan’s fiery dart
To find a God-fearer indistinguishable from an atheist
Resembles a search for a needle in a haystack
One can scarcely distinguish a drug dealer from a priest
Confessionals are killzones of sicarios dealing payback
He didn’t want to live in this new world that they talked about anymore
Even when tempted with riches and caresses from a seductive whore
The old traveler could scarcely imagine the horror of what each day had in store
Days swirled together without the ability to walk out of his door
A stranger in communities bound only to each other and nothing more
A world in the grip of an irrational hysteria
Perfectly confident in its wisdom
Absolutely furious in its brilliant execution of dementia
Liberal with lathering application of judgment
Masters of misunderstanding the prima facia
Are immaculate in their condemnation of dissent
Too many years stumbling through tangled weeds on the overgrown path
Have turned the traveler into a creature of insidiously venomous wrath
Deep within the trussed recesses of his gullet he yearned for a metaphysical bath
Yet the only form of ablution
Is contemplation of coming absolution
And a world inlaid with divinity which would manifest in its aftermath
Yet today there was not to be beheld any figure of presage
Anywhere in the field of view of the smoldering sage
Which would placate his ubiquitous sadness and coolly festering rage
And today another failure to gain the attention and the ear
Of one who he couldn’t help but hold dear
Due to neurotic complexes to which he had become enthralled
Day after day, month after month, year after year
Even still, he is the subject of derision and fear
Still no hope of kindling the fading glow of the retreating golden ember
As months peel away to a shadowy abyss with the encroachment of December
The clock ticks, and with each second there is less to remember
If only a Christian could be found who would hold arms out to an enemy
If only that Christian were someone for whom he held out hope
If only the divine pneuma would breath hope into the world
If only some of that hope would find a home in his soul
Perhaps his tired eyes would finally behold a thread of destiny
It would actually be cool to write about bliss for once