I drew a pentagram on the wall,

With ink unbound by colour and by glare

Of other, more ingeniously put, words of

Remembrance, words of despair.

I listened to the music of our lives

And heard no wind, no howling crescendo

Of the years that played the harp

Of our slow deliverance.

I've traced the lines upon the faces

Of the strong, defiant giants of regret.

Those souls that hunger food no more;

For food they comfort take, and starve,

In the nostalgia of our time.

I've sipped the sands of lust

From distant fountains, in the deserts unrebuked;

And tasted nothing, my thirst unquenched:

Did satisfy its own.

I've dreamed realities we share with others;

In prolonged hours I neglect to dream

The dreams I never share.

And with no ink, nor sight, nor sound

Nor forethought of impulse,

I drew a pentagram on the wall.