Poetry
Song of the South
Freedom is only an illusion

Early on one frosty morn I thought of Dixie The place, not the cup Dixieland The idea and not the music South of the Mason-Dixon line Where everything changes As you step over I thought about her ghosts and How they still surround us Her legend, her lies, her cotton Her slaves, her arrogance I thought about blood and pain About lost causes and defiance Even in defeat But the war isn’t over Not really People are still enslaved With carrots and sticks Wielded by others Wielded by ourselves We’re a nation of slaves Given just enough to keep us going But never enough to break free Distracted, deluded, misdirected Getting less and less significant Less vital Less “us” Until we are nothing And giants feast on our remains
©️Denise Shelton, 2020
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