By now we should be better men
Softly tilling hearts in tender soil,
Speaking like the sun in an endless
Afternoon of windless water and open air.
But the same rays that warm
Fade the stain on the oak and
Penetrate the layers of those
Who don't belong.
Progress is less appealing as a step
To the right of the things we
Bear proudly on our chests,
Cut open and bleeding to our last
Engineered breath. This form of
Extinction will be our dead end.
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