Featured Blog Post: Welcome Home by Claire Lee
Her cool leather hands grow weary
With every threadbare inch.
Yet her passionate flames grow brighter
With every blade of wind.
Her heart’s ablaze,
Her chin held high.
Threads unravel from her dress.
And her scarred face is bared for all to see
From behind rust-red hair fleeing weathered neck.
Bright as youthful days
And free as the circling eagle overhead
As if the wretched sun itself,
Pounding down on beaten backs,
Was etched onto her scalp.
Yet she stands upright still.
And she stands, undoubtedly steel.
Eyes are closed.
Heads are bowed.
Apathetic hands are clasped
In a mindless cult of thoughts and prayers.
We’re brainwashed to believe it’s
An endless loop.
A catch 22.
And so grief is stitched tightly on her cheek
And she roars and sobs with despondent pleas.
Her broken trust poisons children’s streams.
Eyes stay shut.
You choose not to see.
And mouths cannot speak
Rather, you do not speak
Of that permanently stained apron
Tattered beyond belief
Wrapped neatly around her waist
As if to declare her brokenness
To the masses.
To those that value the price of land
With no regard for ancient blood spilled.
To those who will never comprehend
The power of those who fear the future.
To those who erase tragedy itself
Expecting peace and joy.
And yet she stands.
And shouts through the forest.
Echoing back lost hope.
Her eyes twinkle with dreams come true
And dull with thousands crushed.
Her shoes are adorned with gold
And worn thin by a trek across time.
Her ears shine with slipping faith.
She screams strength.
And bleeds sorrow.
Still, she rings her broken bells of liberty,
And opens her arms with a: