Reaching out for something,
it may not come to pass.
A shining bauble, a brass ring,
perhaps a needle in the grass.

The walls we’ve built contain us,
keep safe our mottled dreams.
Who can really blame us,
If we come apart at the seams?

For when we climb on high,
to survey the fallow ground.
The hopes of spring may fly,
But we are still earthbound.

Yet we’ll always have our summer,
that age of gold and rye,
And with it comes our succor,
Life is ours to beautify.

So tear down the monument,
Retrace our timid steps.
Fall not for feelings fraudulent,
Rise up to what lies next.

Flowing into our eyes,
from the sharpest blades of sun,
Out there our happiness lies,
And towards it we must run.

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