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Untitled MAG
foolish fool am i to think of sorrow
if born never i was to be how fun
yes a fool to disregard tomorrow
in bright metallic furture's looming sun
while sandbox freedom evades my attempts
i slide complacently toward disgust
in acquiescence i have lost my sense
worlds made for me and i am made of dust
hours waking a painful waste of time
i trudge through winter wearing not a hat
my being a cosmological crime
mysterious the origin of that
it's not as bad as it may to you seem
with sunday comes the privilege to dream
© Anonymous
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