I haven't moved at all, yet somehow I don't know where I am. Everything around me has changed. I guess we've reached the end.
I've been to the well. I sat for a spell. It's deep as hell. Cold and dark, cause the visits are fewer.
Up means down now I don't fit. I'm doing the best I can, but my past won't let me understand.
The trees are bare. There's no fresh air. Can't spare a square. It's all been said and considered. But still we take from golden plates, old fruit that's dried up and withered.
Up means down now I don't fit. I'm doing the best I can. But my past won't let me understand.
Maybe I'm resistant to change, maybe it's my turn to lose. Roots take from far around, but a tree it hardly moves.
We've reached the end. Let's not pretend that we transcend to build on a stronger foundation. I've been to the well, it's deep as hell, rich and ripe with new inspiration.
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