I pine for things I never had, for fortunes never made,
Of stories unwritten, of songs unsung,
prizes not won and loves not known.
I waste what precious time I have on dreams of "might have been" ,
While the sands of time seep steadily down and life ebbs slowly away,
I sit and sleep and sit and sleep: frozen, stagnant, rooted.
What is this restless yearning, this burning in my breast,
This crippling, dark malaise that eats away my soul?
Is it fear of life or terror of death?
I know it well, yet know it not,
But escape it I must, before I die.
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