A shadow is present,
But only in light,
The darkness can comfort,
When no hue's in sight,
The pleasure of vision,
Often masked in decay,
Our roots have vanished,
Only withered leaves shall stay,
They flutter on downward,
But no one will notice,
Only what they're transformed to,
To buy Earth's last lotus,
Feelings are buffered,
Through not thine own heart,
But through electric impulse,
Of which we'll all soon depart.
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