The Pilgrimage

I'm a pilgrim but I have no holy place as my destination.
My pilgrimage is wandering these streets with the company of my own isolation.
I'm a postmodern pilgrim; I'll sign no Mayflower Compact,
my holy sites are the pub, Jerusalem, Thunder Road, and Mecca,
and my iTunes religion is debated among sacred prophets drinking Stella.

But I don't like those prophets anymore.
So I jumped in my chariot; running from the lumpenproletariat.
My biggest fear was that I was really one of them.
But who can tell the difference between reality and simulcra?
A summer's day like winter; the cold burns my soul like the snow burns my skin.
Every night is like the streets of old Jerusalem: ancient, winding, endless streets,
I lost my vision in the very midst of the Holy Land.

I was born to run but I never found thunder road,
just another conjured myth celebrated by iPod prophets.
The Holy Grail for which only lost souls would search,
and I was really one of them.
But I'm no Sir Gawain; this pilgrim grows tired,
and the Green Knight's head has been permanently severed.

Who can tell the difference between simulcra and reality?
And do we need a holy grail to preserve our sanity?
Yea tho' I walk through the streets of the lonely,
I will feel no evil, for you are not with me,
the silence, the solace, the surreal, they comfort me.

There is no Jerusalem and there is no Mecca.
The pilgrim has finally come home.