The Man from the Past

The venom of thought is sharper than swords
One word may well destinies mould
One glance or a purposeful frown may suffice
For the terminal act to unfold

The vile ones consider you overly vile
The worthless have doubt in your worth
The people entrapped in the furnace of hell
Curse you deeper yet into the earth

Your birth is your fault, your loyalty, sin
No place in this world is your home
A wanderer, thirsty, forsaken and lost
This desert you're destined to roam

As an anchor you fall and are left thus to hang
Left to hang, void of warmth and of life
Like a sun upon vacuum you'll finally set
To the bosom of slow-thawing ice

You are followed by clouds that blacken the sky
And, before they begin to ascend
Will pour down all their earnest and venomous tears
As if mourning the death of a friend