file closed

first, you call them something else.
something small enough to hold in the mouth,
spit out without a second thought—
vermin, plague, infestation.

then, you count them.
not as people, but as weight,
as numbers against the good ones,
as shadows stretching too long
across your clean streets.

next, you make them illegal.
not their actions, but their breath,
the way they exist
without permission.

then, you take their words.
cut their tongues to fit your mouth,
strike their names from the pages,
rewrite the past until they were never here.

you take their names,
give them numbers,
give them cages,
give them silence.

you teach the people to hate.
and if they learn well enough,
the rest is just paperwork.

Relics Underfoot

The old elephant
doesn’t shout about liberty anymore—
not like it used to
when its feet gripped steady ground.
Now, tusks high,
it pauses,
nostrils flaring,
eyes clouded like old marble.
For a moment, stillness
drifts between shadows,
wisps of something forgotten.

Then, a jolt—
it charges the plains,
words slipping loose,
prayers rotting into chants.
It hides under banners,
crosses scrawled on canvas,
smoke and ash soaking the air.

It wails at a field of mirrors,
each one flaring with anger,
oaths older than reason
bouncing, echoing, wild.
We are chosen,
chosen to purge—
old promises,
truth, dignity,
swept aside, shattered,
like relics underfoot.

But there’s a tremor,
a heartbeat
beneath its armor,
a memory of old songs,
of flags that didn’t hide shadows.
It almost remembers—
a tune, a story—
something buried deep,
waiting for hands
steady enough to unearth it.
The air shifts—
not rain,
not yet,
but the whisper of clouds gathering,
or maybe fading.

— Earl David Freeland