The end forebodes the beginning
just as much the beginning the end;
And here I exist, a mere murk of revel—
pitiable and wallowing like swine in quick silver;
Such is my dark delight— my hollow wonderment,
I hear the hooves of twilight and the stomps of noon
the hours passing, each chasing me—
each bending me where I won’t break.
And I forever question the quiet stirring
of my lonesome being—whether this
soullessness be my beginning or my end?
And just as a river,
silted like a hose filled with sand,
is gray at dawn as at dusk,
And just like the sun
creeps from behind the gray blanket of dawn
and returns to the grayness at dusk,
Is this despair hereditary?
Or have I wandered too far from the hair of vital totem—
Have I veered astray
from generations caught in some dire orbit—
Or is this soulless nausea my cradle, my grave?
My beginning, my end?