I believe you did not have a happy life.
I believe you were cheated.
I believe your best friends were loneliness and misery,
I believe your busiest enemies were anger and depression.
I believe joy was a game you could never play without stumbling.
I believe comfort, though you craved it, was forever a stranger.
I believe music had to be melancholy or not at all.
I believe no trinket, no precious metal, shone so bright as
 your bitterness.
I believe you lay down at last in your coffin none the wiser
 and unassuaged.
Oh, cold and dreamless under the wild, amoral, reckless, peaceful
 flowers of the hillsides.