One choice will branch on its own and reach
For sunlight it knows it will never find
Growing taller, its stance is brittle and weak
Floating away from our State of Mind
The branches will have all turned bleak
When we get to the road at the end of our time
Will we look back on our pasts
And be content with what we've left behind
My thoughts speak volumes louder than words
Though I lock them away
And we're forced into 40 hours of work
And our voices below refuse to be heard