It creeps in your heart like molasses
so sweet and so sticky and black
and if you succumb to its siren
you will vanish, and never come back
you will live in a world of illusion
and speak to the dead every day
and the longer you talk, your confusion
will wax and grow strong and hold sway.
If you live in the land of nostalgia
you will sit on the earth as a stone
and the vines and the berries will shroud you
and the earthlings will leave you alone
You will burn at that ancient stone altar
sweet incense and days of your youth
as they rise in a cloud, you inhale them
at first harsh, but eventually sooth.
Until time wears away on your body
the creases that made you a man
and Nostalgia, embalmer, mortician,
completes what he subtly began.