The seasons alter our behaviour
From when were seeds until when we are sprung,
But golden leaves still fall out of favour,
They drift on the wind and die in the sun.
The oak that made us carries on living.
Creaking with age and awaiting the rain,
It drinks its fill, for nature is giving.
But right at the end its stolen away.
Death is the only part thats for certain.
Life is completley out of our control.
Dancing puppets in front of the curtain.
Your stitched in your clothes and can't change your role.
My futile labour of making you laugh.
My hollowed-out heart refuses to beat.
"Don't walk the grass, just stick to the path,"
On parallel lines we never will meet.
