Not in the Realms of Gold

My travels were not in the realms of gold
Until I reached this strange and advanced age.
I hoped for some help when I hit this stage,
But all I had was money. I had sold
My art and conscience, and was growing old,
Consumed by fear, that happy coprophage.
I thought by now I’d be unhinged, or sage,
But all I am is uncertain and cold.

I won’t be silent, not on a mountaintop,
Not on a riverbank, or in the valley —
Never quiet, ready for a rally:
I’ll run so hard, no one can make me stop.
I bought this liquor in a pastry shop
Alongside ruins in a stinking alley.