the wind is a traitor

it whispers your dreams

eurus’ gales seep through inseams of torn jeans

stripping away the undergrowth

until all that remains are forlorn figures

the sun is a prayer

that pledges an oath fated to be broken

your justifications spent like arcade tokens

but when they turn their backs you turn to me

and find peace in my eve

your homeland is a falsity

a sweet lullaby slathered in ecstacy

a tonic of insouciance i willingly imbibe

a state of denial, a cycle of grief

a pyramid scheme built on compromise

and as the hurricane stagnates

as the sun eclipses

as our country is swallowed by war and sea

wading through soot and debris

dawned an epiphany

a sapling burst through the scorched earth

that grew into a sacred forest

new beginnings after senseless destruction

history fading into fiction

– forlorn figures by annie xiong