This Land Was Sold for You and Me

This Land Was Sold for You and Me

My pulse of life shortened to a click 

choose money or heart - it’s all a trick

Each hour ticks by as I stare at a screen

churning out tasks, no flesh just machine.

My feet crave movement, but are stuck in freeze.

Who I was and am, a fading memory. 

I’m a writer of place, with no sense of home -

A lover of nature, yet indoors I roam.

The void expands, a chasm wide,

between what I fight for and where I reside.

I conserve the land, connect property lines

but the system itself just undermines.

They say this land’s made for you and me

but only as fuel for the economy.

Dollars or breath become our debt,

a ledger of lives it won’t soon forget.

The climate is changing—how long 'til they see,

no home of the brave, until these lands are free

The power lies in the pen that records,

so they take our words, sheath our swords

But my words they can’t cage, they’re wild and free

they come from the open space of democracy.

From empty pages, in the quiet of breath,

I can weave a fabric that defies even death.

Each sentence a spell, each word a fight

feathers and pens, both silent in flight. 

But what good does it do, if I speak alone?

What is the weight of a single stone?

A pair of bootstraps, just ropes in the air,

no ground to pull, no strength to spare.

But together our words create the flow

for if you throw a stone, ripples grow.

This country was drafted by pen and ink

we can craft a new future, reshape, rethink.

Though the pen feels small, it’s pressure too light,

as the fires rage on into the night, 

Fireweed rises where once was flame.

Roots shift earth even if none know their name.

So, I’ll climb the peaks, and walk these lands,

living my life, with pen in hand.

Words on the page, my gift to thee -

my quiet rebellion, for silence is free.