To prisoners of the Past.
Clutching at the last straw.
Hanging over the edge of an abyss.
Since a Millennia.
Addicted to the opium of the past.
The moss and fungi laden air,
Fumigating our lungs,
Asphyxiating our sense of existence of the present.
Greatness fossilised in the resin of our blood,
Remains frozen like a colloid in our arteries of thought.
No logic will penetrate the dead wood,
Its not wood it's not bio degradable.
The constipation of ages, has clogged our soul.
It is dying,
It cannot twiddle its toes.
When o when shall you leave your fools gold?
The past does not last, the present is in the moment,
The future beckons, your languishing soul,
It begs you to reckon.
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