By Richard Linthicum
I
The tide is at the ebb, as if to mark
Our turning backward from the guiding light;
Grotesque, uncertain shapes infest the dark
And wings of bats are heard in aimless flight;
Discordant voices cry and serpents hiss,
No friendly star, no beacon's beckoning ray;
We follow, all forsworn, with steps amiss,
Envy and Malice on an unknown way.