Member-only story
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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