Solitude

For some odd years and finite days,
I've chanced to test the bond
That memory invokes within
The realm of that called fond.

That is where I dwell today
In secrecy and pride -
Upon the secret of the world,
Across the thinker's stride.

Here I will forever stay.
Today is not so rare
That should distinguish now from then,
For still the world is bare.

Bare of hope for all to be
Is that of which I tell.
Have you never seen your face?
Or do you neglect hell?

The past, you see, is all the same
As everything to come.
That which was again will be
Before the day is done.

My home is called a place of peace,
A place where one can think
Without the fear of other's thoughts
To test sanity's brink.

But, oh, the thoughts that life should bring
Are still enough to drive
A man to madness all the same,
For that is how we strive.

We strive to live, we strive for wealth,
We strive for love and lust.
We live, in all, but for ourselves,
For that is how we must.

And so the world will never see
A peace across its spans.
Men are men; they always were
Upon its ancient sands.

Call you now what you can call.
Solitude despairs,
For that which one would think is peace
Is merely chance impaired.

To think what men have done before,
And what's to come predict,
One must look inside himself,
And know he too is sick.