A nonsense poem on alienation

When I am old and weary,

the passions I have only dreamed-

to be are themselves lost.

 

When my thoughts have left my side,

or made up some demon in fright:
an imaginary friend – a strange delight.

When the years have blown away like autumn,

away all the signs of the living
and loneliness and death to my abode have come.
Then O hapless child take me home!

Home ? What home old chap ?

The land which bore your childhood,
Or the land that made you ?

Home, home I say

beneath towering mountains
besides the deserts grey.
Perhaps in a valley,
Perhaps in a shade
Perhaps, in a clear rill.
Or perhaps in your lone self.
That home of which you speak,
in ennui or numbed passion,
Of the time when I cry,
When I wake up to the starry sky,
Of emotion or passion think
Unfulfilled on the brink
And Lady Lazarus with all her charms.

When in the wisps of poesy I see,

as if I have drunk,
or allude to the same,
when no stars in the sky,
stare at me,
and the melancholy of the moment seizes
the act of thinking.

 It is that moment of which I speak

When all my joys are lost
Home is a place, a place to rot,
The people refuse to own,
The land itself pale and forlorn
and I’m homeless - carefree.
 Lady Lazarus come forth,
let me walk with thee.