With tasteless mounds we fear great toils
And with bitter sights we forsake the grave
Perhaps, as our minds grow smaller and wiser, so will our souls?
In this enriching betterment, what do we find?
What experience do we gain while only watching?
By watching alone; by repeating the same bad habits,
do we forsake and cancer ourselves?
What sort of mentality is the healthy sort?
We can't clear our minds of all the bitterness, all the resentment
The only cleansing our souls are calm with is crying
By letting out each drop of fake resolve, we extend our life
In years of crying, dozens more will emerge
Quite unkempt hair will take over the mountains
And then the sky will cry, and stars will fall
All the falling humans have done will be worthless
We'll drown in our self-loathing, and our future will plummet
In what game does one hide and play with poppies?
In what game does one slide by with fake masks?
Where does one learn to stop playing childish games?
--With love, Reggie the Mouse + Cartel Winter
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