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Quick to Think
What's worn but wept, from time unspent
And torn from flesh in tried neglect.
What's wished aside in passing tides
But taken in stride when mornings rise.
And troubles do come, in stroll and strum,
And some may pass, or you may succumb.
But you compound in thought unfound
In wishing the day was almost done.
You pave your plight with constant spite
And slog your troubles to double.
And in the nights, alone with your blight,
You don't question whether you're right.
