I linger with oblivion,
draw my charts
where despair reigns
and hope is a lake,
deep and clear.

I am the antichrist,
the opposing voice
to the songs of ever after,
the long tales
of make belief.

Thus I say to you:
There is no teeming truth
that you may cling to,
nor any aftermath
that you may claim as yours.

Time is a harsh mistress,
the following
does not keep in touch
with all that you
thought was all of you.