Living where the sun shines is ace,
But the second era is bitter.
Mornings are never different;
You wake up hoping for better notes
But the dolor shadows you
You are maimed, merged with an end to the cosmos
All you think of is when the uncouth aeon will cease;
When the incessant cattiness will decay;
When all the sin, solecism, bane, tumor, will bar;
But its endless, the whirlwind is ever rude, never settles.
There is endless silence in the streets,
Withered meadows splash the byways,
The air lifts the skin dry, no film anymore;
Footsteps remain where you left them, never refined;
The ‘back-way’ drains the cadets; and some, gone till cows come home;
Relicts are everywhere, the field seizes the oomph of men
Who decided to stay; who set to age our busted land.
Every morning is grey, full of dismay, forlornness
And we all know the…
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