Life as a recluse has got its charm.
Emily Dickinson had a good thing going.
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Ode to the Modern Life
Where are our fictional heroes?
Imprinted on our retina's, always there,
but never tangible.
What have we become except
more greedy, more tortured
less happy, less bouyant.
What is to become of the world
but the buds of doubt
planted in its deep warm earth,
poison to its lifeblood
Come to me, wooden spoon
Discipline my weary conscience
Teach my soul the bounds
To live without sin, with no regret.
Untangle the path.
Erase me till I am gone
Then draw me as you want -
I am your servant.
To those who look on
With pinched noses and
Furrowed brow, its not
Too late.
Know that I know,
I see you as myself.
We are a mirror unto us all -
Stand and watch your destiny.
a/n: ah the drabble.
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