Echoes of a Wounded Earth

Sometimes I ponder what proof will suffice.

In moments spent dodging bullets’ deadly whir,

Or escaping the foul breath of chemical despair, or clawing

My way from the wildfires that devour my future,

I wonder what proof it will take

To awaken those lead-dulled minds of the indifferent,

Their faces pale with the privilege of age.

.

I question how many tongues must swell and stick,

Silenced by pesticides and hatred unspoken,

Before the clenched fists of science can soften hands gnarled

From strangling life, liberty, and the pursuit of joy.

How many years will drift by before the carnage turns upon itself,

And wages war against the steady hands

That reload the perpetually smoking gun?

.

Too many.

It's a vile pastime, filling the bottle, attaching the hose,

Smirking as the innocents shriek.

A hobby to mutilate, to ravage, to sever the heads of blooms.

I refuse to step up, to grasp your sword.

I will not beg pardon, bow before the guillotine,

And gaze into the bucket, quieting my words to comfort them.

.

You slow for snakes, watch for deer, help turtles across the road,

Yet you pour your poisons into our waters,

And obliterate the budding signs of life under your care.

Keep your eyes peeled for the resilient hawks and eagles

Only to gun them down at dawn,

Feast on their remains and leave their ailing young as burdens

For a generation you label weak for their empathy.

.

The world was your bounty, now it’s a parched desert,

Littered with the landmines you've strategically placed.

I am deemed frail for navigating through your detonations,

To liberate the creatures you dismissed as inconsequential.

Yet my backbone remains unyielding.

One day, you will come, seeking to crush it,

And discover that it refuses to bend to your will