Ought to be working, cannot concentrate.
Ought to do what they all do, cannot imitate.
Up on my hill of permanent mist;
Shaking sand all around me.
Gulls mocking a small form in spite.
Red darkness setting on a day of iridescent hue.
Red light splatters like blood upon my tired body.
Somehow, a path is seen at the Northern foot of my hill.
It is low and dangerous.
Courageously, I step, stone by stone;
Hopelessly devoted to this new route.
Through the forest, I wander at the foot.
And monkeys chatter happily to their fellows.
Lush and green, so inherently sweet the air.
Now I am devoted to this New World.
I am devoted to my chateau.
Here I will work, as I am supposed to.
One day, I shall step outside;
To the lake outside the chateau;
And ask the ugly ducklings if I am carrying out my truthful fate.
Not a chance, they reply. Now, I have been down here so long;
The end must be drawing near.
And I criticise the Black Forest.
For making my life miserable.
"I ought to have lived", I say to myself.
I ought to have lived in these worn shoes.
