Before I had been mistaken
searching for meaning in sensation;
be it art, poetry or song,
in all these pursuits I had been wrong;
comfort, consolation these forms provide,
under life’s pressures they subside,
and prove powerless to sustain,
the soul in darkness to remain.
Experience by nature has its run;
the art, poem or the song is done,
and leaves a void in the ending
more profound the greater the sending;
leaving one invariably depressed,
to seek comfort in pain suppressed,
in alcohol or drug addiction,
or suicide as if life were a fiction.
In solitude and silence
is the key to consolation;
no picture, rhyme or tune,
but serves as a distraction.