~
You weren’t radicalized by one lie.
You were softened by slow erosion.
Not tricked; tuned.
The need to belong hummed in harmony with a louder voice.
You didn’t reason it – you recognized it.
Heard it in your bones before your brain.
That’s resonance. That’s survival.
Every herd animal knows it. Every hunted one too.
You didn’t gather at the fire because it was holy.
You came because it was warm.
Because the song was simple.
Because someone said: you’re safe here.
And safety – even as a falsehood – is hard to refuse.
Were I your enemy;
a shadow with a smile,
shaping wind, not stone –
this is what I’d do:
I’d let you cheer a flag-wrapped bill while I rewrote the fine print.
Let your roads turn to rubble and your clinics close.
Shutter at the thought.
Turn your schools into slogans.
Call it freedom.
Praise you – glorious you – arrived fully formed,
unbroken by trial, unbothered by doubt.
I’d call you patriot while selling your land to distant bidders.
Stamp your flag on crates packed for elsewhere
not to honor you,
to market you.
You lovely, unknowing innocent.
Beautiful little fool.
I’d teach you to mistake theater for truth.
Then I’d wait. It’s rude to interrupt.
And a nation that won’t stop clapping
can’t hear the curtain fall.
enter – stage left
But if you called me friend;
your physician, your priest,
your neighbor who listens past the clamor
I’d say this:
You’re not immoral. You’re exhausted.
Bless you. So am I.
You’ve been walking in circles
on causeways cobbled with empty speeches.
Sold a story with no ending.
The cure isn’t rage.
It’s reckoning.
I’d remind you how justice speaks
not in sirens or spotlights,
but in harvests. In clean water.
In jobs that don’t vanish after ribbon-cuttings.
I’d help your towns hum again.
The quiet music of usefulness –
the melody of humble tasks, kindled.
And I’d tell you:
The sacred doesn’t shout.
It listens.
Vision doesn’t come from power.
It comes from love that reveres the ensemble.
You were never broken.
Only borrowed.
Must’ve forgotten to leave a note…
Your hunger fed another’s feast –
and when they’d seen their fill,
they saved you the dishes.
But the table can still be reset.
With your hands. With your voice.
Honestly. Humbly. For each other.
Be good to each other.
This country isn’t dead.
It’s just waiting
for its real voice
to return.
~