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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Empire

I am approaching the age of empire.
Dissemination of the gospel.
Formation of libraries, museums, ritual.
Edifice building.
Collections.
Collegiate fraternities.
Memoirs and revisionist histories.
And contemplating my arrival,

I sat in the sun and removed my shirt.
The warmth was softening.
Encouraged, I removed my shoes.
My feet sighed, my toes danced,
as I thought of empire.
I removed my pants
and felt the world blow by,
and the flag I was hoisting
to claim my suzerainty over life,
hesitated.

I looked beyond the flag
to the sky,
and slowly let it fall.
Another day.
Another ceremony.
I walked on the softness of the grass,
so immaculate.
I sat down,
then stretched out,
and wondered at how tall
I felt again.

What was happening?
Age fell from my limbs.
In this period of empire,
the success of life,
of history,
I suddenly wanted to renounce
my claim to glory.
Wisdom flew from my hands
like a bird liberated.
No more homilies today.
No more telling who, what or when.

I was tired in a new way.
As if a sweet innocence engulfed me,
and I could truly rest,
be restored,
look forward instead of back,
and tomorrow sail away from empire
and its heavy load.
Return to what I am.
A kid just hanging out with friends,
mother earth,
and lemonade in the sun.

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