THE HEARTACHE OF TIME

I CAME TO A POINT IN THE WOODS OF MY MIND
AS ABOVE SO BELOW IN THE HEARTACHE OF TIME
AND I WISHED FOR A STOP TO THE MADNESS OF MEN
AND I WISHED FOR A STOP IN THE ACQUISITION OF SIN
ALONE DID I JOURNEY ONWARD FOR DAYS
LOST IN THE SILENCE THE WOODS AND THE HAZE
ALL MANNER OF CREATURE I SAW AS I WENT
REBUKED BY THE LORD AND ****** TO REPENT
ALL MANNER OF WOMEN THAT MOANED LIKE THE BEAST
REBUKED BY THE LORD AND OFFERED AS FEAST
AND I CRIED FOR ALL CREATURES LOST TO THE NIGHT
WHO KEPT ON SURVIVING BY VANQUISHING LIGHT
AND IT IS I TO THEM THAT OWE ALL MY THANKS
FOR MAKING ME SEPARATE OUTSIDE OF THEIR RANKS
I KEPT FAST TO MY CROSS AS I EMPTIED THE WOODS
FOR BEHIND AND A-FRONT CREPT MANY WITH HOODS
DEAD AND YET WALKING AND HATING ALL LIGHT
DEAD AND YET WALKING ARE THE CREATURES OF NIGHT
I CAME TO A POINT IN THE WOODS OF MY MIND
AS ABOVE SO BELOW IN THE HEARTACHE OF TIME

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its wild sativa;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its tamed alcoholic.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its endless freedom;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its slavery to freedom.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its philosophic heart;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its down-regulation of joy.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is its search for silence;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is its capacity for noise.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is the free meal;
the worst thing about being a wander
is the free meal.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is the love of night;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the love of day.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is the wandering heart;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the gypsy heart.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is its magic book;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its accumulated curse.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is its varied muse;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its lack of one.

I ride a ghastly, palish horse,
his hair is ghoulish, sharp and coarse;

We ride upon the night: a rave -
no sound about us beyond the brave,
and the sighing dying no god could save,
but reaped and stolen by the glaive.

And fear in hearts of men we stir,
when I give my palish horse the spur,
and soundless shrieks of still and void
greet the darkness, overjoyed.