Existence, it just is.
To lament that which we are rid of
After we chose it
Why do we succumb to such things?
Is it a fools passion
The hopeless cry of the romantic
Or the nature of the human condition?
One day no more will we worry, wonder or want
For that which was once lamented
Is now not even a memory
Replaced it has been by that which you again be rid of
Repeating your cycle evermore.