Some Slopes are Slippery

We were lured,
years ago,
with promises of
freedom, 
pride,
prosperity.

"Only here,
on our side,
can you enjoy
the peace,
the freedom
of this beautiful land,"
they boasted,
"come,
come and see."

To the edge
we drifted.
To the golden cliff
where sunsets fell
on lies
saccharine-dipped.

And we slipped.
The edge gave way
betraying our trust.
Rock broke.
People fell.
Hard.

But voices called.
Again.
They always do.

"It’s better,
so much
better now,"
they shout.

"We're on solid ground."

"Don’t listen to the non-believers."

"Come. 
Join us. 
We'll keep you safe."

So we went again.
Despite memories.
Despite truth.
Despite warnings
rattling our bones.

We dug in,
deep,
our bloody,
dirty,
weather-worn heels.
We called it progress.
We called it freedom.
We told ourselves
it wasn’t that bad
because it wasn’t happening
to us.

But it was.

And while we stared
at the horizon,
they got to work.

They removed the guardrails.
Took down danger signs.
Fired the rangers,
silenced the scientists,
defunded the doctors,
muzzled the truth.

They painted over the cracks
with bright slogans
and louder lies.
They said "stand tall"
as the wind howled hotter,
as the ledge wore thinner,
as the valley below
smoldered.

And still we stood.

Because admitting danger
would mean admitting guilt.
And guilt feels worse
than gravity.

But now
the slope shifts.
The tremors start.
The cracks run deep.
And still we stay.

There will be a collapse.

And we will fall
down,
to swamps
stocked with snakes
and alligators,
where sharp-toothed smiles
wait in shallow water
to feast
on the faithful
and the foolish.

Some slopes are slippery.
Some lies are sticky.
And some warnings
were never meant to be ignored.