The trees bleed from orange to brown
While the other arm shows bone
And leaves the half full fools to fight
For something that they don't even want.
They'll eventually fall to the fake ground
And wonder if this newfound hell is
Being run over by round white angels who
Come and go quickly, just to torment you.
Those who stretched out when color was there
Might just get lucky if a passing storm
Or a gust of air can set them in soil,
Surrounded by those young and greedy admirers.
Just pray you don't find yourself floating
In the backbreaking ocean where life itself
Has frozen in heat and becomes sectioned off into
Those that are worthwhile and those that are not.
Then here comes the bright young man
With his flourishing shape and fresh pale skin,
Who'd rather not see his future unfold,
Pushing out further and ignoring what's left.
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