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After a rain, after a branch soaked journey,
I sit near a clear cut watching silt filled
water lazily run off the open yard.
I stare at the torn floor,
my thinking fractured by the damage
and I imagine a small deer
watching from the trees in the distance
a lonely spikehorn
safely from me.
The ground is overchurned brown mixed with green, trampled
remains; beyond all repair.
Wind scrapes the earth with a shrill voice, tempest
over the desolate barren waste,
and I pull out my clip held bullets.
Inside, my heart stopped the hunt.
I think trying to get it straight, that once
there was shelter here to house and feed
kindred souls, gypsy hearts, while heaven's cool rains
would fully quench all yearning thirsts, and tenants
felt the moisture washing their blood.
It's because of this
that I sit here in this torture
with my thoughts clinging to life -
and feel disconsolate.
The commercialized death of this once existing growth
generates a dark and looming doom
that lurks near this pervading to destruction.
In my head, I see a squirming ghost of sheer complacency,
while bold free enterprisers with wheels and knives
drive onward through forests with persistence,
processing mechanical money beds.
But I sit here still alive,
no escape from the eyesore.
I try to imagine the confusion of the roar
the woodlands so dispersed, turning
into such ravished striplands as their space
shrinks, and their home, is lost.
But the truth remains unchanged.
The truth hides only as long as it takes to hurt
and the deer hides only as long
as the forest still stands
until his hiding places start turning
into man's cold spaces
into a final solutions
behind fences so ghastly unreal. Nowhere
left to run: species forced from their shelter -
and with this vision across this bare moonscape
and with this wind-swept air
lashing emptiness in front of me, the truth begins to hurt.
© Eric True
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