Remnants of Summers Wasted

When you look back, you won’t think of her,
You’ll remember your friend’s lounge room,
And his new job digging his way straight out of
Summers that pass by too soon.

If you do the same, you’ll reach a point,
When what happens this summer has no bearing,
On the person you are when you’re trekking afar,
And you’ve forgotten as much as stopped caring.

One day these decisions, these deft workman tools,
Will be trophies honouring forgettable fools,
Not cherished symbols of all you’ve tasted,
But fine remnants of summers wasted.

If you cross the train lines, you won’t have to pause,
You can drive straight past that house,
And you can find strength to cleanse yourself of
Wasted passions you should douse.

One day these decisions, these deft workman tools,
Will be trophies honouring forgettable fools,
Not cherished symbols of all you’ve tasted,
But fine remnants of summers wasted.

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