When all One’s ties are good as dead,
What’s he supposed to do?
One could attempt to stay in bed,
And fain he has the flu.
When death arises; bloody stains,
All butchered to the sheets,
One envies for which Death obtains,
So jealous of his feats.
Why is it this calls on green eyes,
And never once the norm?
One must remain with this disguise,
This bunker from the storm.
When fury glows and fires burn
The colour green as leaves,
One knows that he has much to learn,
For One, no one believes.
When all One knows is treachery,
Against his dour emotions,
Time and again, soon One will be,
The unit baring potions.
Why is it thus that One so strives?
So downcast and decayed,
It’s been One’s dream for many lives,
Decisions long since made.
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