Our ancestry placed us in chains
Shackling our imagination to a sinister cellar
Amid the pickling jars and moonshine
Stashed for future need
It is no wonder that our thoughts are always turned inward
And we do not see well beyond the darkness of our desperation
Souls entombed in black and surrounded by things preserved
They are dead to the present
But it is believed their usefulness
Is sometime in the distant future
What are we here for anyway—
We cannot possibly see beyond our means
Past the dead cucumbers of harvest
So many summers ago
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