My Masters say I’m deluded
That nothing is ever what it seems
That it’s a futile quest for pleasure
That even my pain cannot be held
I’m afraid that I’ll no longer mourn
The ones I loved more than myself
Forgetful, in other joys and sorrows
If this be true, if deceit be the price
For all our pleasures, all our pains
Then may this morning’s awakening
Be the emptiness of your embrace.