Fall Lines
The mountains have no clothes.
For up here, nothing grows.
And the land bears itself without shame:
bares its scars,
boulders like cars
crashed, uninvestigated, never removed.
Faults that were no one's fault,
scrapes where glaciers lazily dragged their claws:
ice without malice.
But below, in the world, that's a different story.
A thousand different stories,
tangled in a jungle of roots.
Layers of soil muffle the bedrock of truth,
which must be dressed.
A thousand fashion houses competing
to flatter, impress, conceal,
as per the demands of the season.
What are we covering?
The unflattering edges of conquest,
the inconvenient truths of we who did what needs must.
And somewhere, under it all, Neanderthal bones
whisper answers we do not want.
We weave narratives to forget,
tailor history for a comfortable fit,
and wear it with false pride,
even as the threads fray.
We drape ourselves in myths,
to shield us from the chill of our origins.
The mountains have no clothes.
Their scars remain,
truths too stark to be denied.
What would it mean to strip our stories bare,
to stand uncloaked
and unflinching,
at last?
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