When the old days all fall away
No longer are they of any use
A copy of what has been said
Is now used as a weak excuse
Original thought is a rarity
Sitting under the apple tree
Never allowed in these times
Shackled and no longer free
Once we thought; free to fly
Now too often led by the crowd
Afraid to say or write the truth
We can think; but never out loud
Stoic Poetry