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Henry David Thoreau

O that Thoreau had lived
one thousand years as simply
as he did those few at Walden,
that he may have written
a book as big as the Bible
and as widely read as
‘Playboy’ magazine . . . that all may
read with undiluted eyes
and guided ears the lines
he laid so perfectly to paper
in those days so long ago . . . 
before the ground was molded
into streams upon which
moving metal now flows
at speeds never fast enough
to carry us away from
all of the things that we run . . .
like slaves back to our master’s fields
to toil in the ruination of labor
laid upon the backs of others
too weary to carry themselves. 
O that Thoreau had lived
one thousand years and be still
alive today . . . to see the apostasy 
in full bloom; our fields ripe
with the chosen servitude 
from which sprout these lives
we lead in quiet desperation. 


Copyright © 2003 Chad Lilly




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