– by Luciana Fisher
The ink of my writing is not blue, but red—
tainted with the blood of those before me,
and those who will come next.
Red—demanding your attention,
pleading to be read.
Read as if written in blue,
the blue of knowing—
the weight of the state we find ourselves in.
Blue, yet bathed in red—grief—
for the states that steal us,
as democracy is held hostage
by the green greed of the few.
The bloody truth stains the scorned,
as the mirage of progress fades—
dissolving with every bill
signed in black—
Black as oil, thick as death,
spilled across lands,
choking the breath
of those who never held the pen,
and the ink that will smudge
before ever being read.
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