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2. |
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I don’t think they mean well
Not quite rooted in reality, principally concerned by the hypotheses
I don’t mean to speak ill
Sympathetic me, the voice to flee, locked in doldrums, dorsal-vagal doldrums
So one day I’ll be an ecologist.
Mark a quadrat, and we can just sit there together
Amongst the plants we can study forever
And in a book I note
That I’m not sure, what’s worth more
Leaves left to growing or incessant knowing
Lead down to paper, chrysopoeia robs the earth for more
Now I don’t know, what its for
Can’t take it any more, you’re on the floor, pressing more
“An Ouroborous of complexity!”
“Its not alchemy, its not that really hard to see”
You state with gold hoops gripped like they’re melting in the palms of your hands
Like corium-kissed photography
The steady beauty of your glow, yet contradicting how you’d grow
Straight down to the core of the earth
And I’d become a geologist, to pull you up
And you, the classic economist, would ask, what its all worth?
Not that much I do suppose
But I find no value in the incessant growing, the exchange of owning
Head down to paper, hope to save it, is there something more to know?
One day I’ll be a biologist, and I’ll know you well
—You don’t need to be a biologist, just to know one well
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3. |
[Bonus Level]
02:40
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And though I never found it any more than what it needs to be
For it to be, does it need to mean everything to me?
Break wings of birds in hand
New found health points, can’t cave again
But God I feel so bad
Do you?
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