because you're mortal.
I suppose from every withering wood
bursts forth a summer spring
to sit and let me waste away
is such a dreadful thing.
So make a choice and take me forth
that I should happiness find
I won't come back, don't worry about that
but given your state of mind
The poison works quick,
this fog makes thick
that which suffocates your day
and to think, just open your eyes;
you're not even going the right way.
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