My body is a country.

It is a country

Of curves, rolling hills,

Valleys that move to the rhythm of steps,

Thick forests of redwood,

Rivers and streams that

Run through muscle and bone,

And it is a country

Ruled by culture.

It runs like the blood carrying

Oxygen to every settlement

And buries its roots deep

Like the branches

Of my brain cells.

I am inhabited by

Storytellers, artisans,

Wood witches, students,

Fortune tellers, thinkers,

And royalty.

Every piece,

Like a freckled star,

Is apart of me.

It makes my trees take root

And it makes my clouds rain.

But there is a war.

A great invasion.

Invators who slash at the moon and

Make the sun internally bleed.

There are battles and unrest.

Make the land smaller.

Blow through the mountains and hills.

Flatten out the land

So that it is smooth,

Perfect and beautiful.

Make it rain acid.

The water will never nourish,

It will only pollute.

Let there be control:

A dictatorship over what I never felt was truly mine.

It is a power toss.

Control will sit in my hand like an obedient bird,

But will then fly away.

It flutters out of control

With no way to return home.

It is a war.

The only way to win is

To keep chasing that bird.

I will keep chasing it into

The sunset.