At the start I relied on others.
Too young too small,
A reasonable concern from mothers.
Attempts to keep away the gall.
If only we could steer clear,
Our fear inevitable.
We a utopia revere.
The decisions of others now regrettable.
Pursue our own power,
Happy for a while.
Then our grapes go sour,
'Til we bathe in a rubbish pile.
A vicious circle of vice
Has our luck has run cold?
We are no better than mice
for the lies we ourselves have told.
No comments:
Post a Comment