We live out of our cents,
And live not with sense.
We gather some of it in,
And by all means and din,
We let go of our very life.
We let in all the odd strife,
And keep out all we need.
And we leap off the ledge.
We do all this for the edge,
And end up with all we want.
We have no will for a recant,
And end up with lost years.
We gather up eons of fears,
And waste away senseless,
And leave legacies in a mess.
©etjacques
E