The bright days drips its seconds
At the same rate it did thousand years ago
The dreamers bake their souls in the sun
The doers drain themselves in the sun
And time wills itself, effortlessly away,
As it is wont when one desires it still
Mocking the dreamer expertly weaving excuses
For the day he made excuses his mantra
He had long since stopped living
Except because it takes too much effort
To stop breathing – to stop breathing while poor
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