He sought to lead a hermit’s life
For hatred travels far and wide;
But saw, no matter where he went,
He carried all of it inside,
Inside his hot and summer brain,
The hatred was inside.

He’d left when he was just a kid
To break off and to make a name;
But found again, to his dismay,
Just what a hollow thing is fame:
A pouring down of acid rain
Upon the glorified.

He travels now the old dirt track,
The heat of summer in his eyes;
He can’t escape from what he is,
But knows that some could sympathize –
For life is just a thing to feign,
And hope is little more than pride

And love’s an old, forgotten lane

That he remembers, once

 
He tried