We hide from you; flee from you. Still you come.
Our ancestors dwelled in the deepest shadows of the thickest forests. Yours cleared trees, built roads, and subjugated any that dared oppose them. Forests dwindled while empires rose and fell.
We flee from you; hide from you. Still, you come.
You called us monsters. Skin-turners. Shape-shifters. Lycanthropes. You murdered us, then pretended that we never existed. Myths, you called us. Legends. Stories to frighten children.
We hide from you; flee from you. Still, you come.
Will it take our ultimate stand for you to finally leave us in peace? Already, your lights shine in the darkness in which we tremble, praying you’ll leave. Already, your obscene tools of agriculture torture our final woods yet again, striping trees barely older than saplings to satisfy your endless appetites.
We have nowhere left to run; nowhere left to hide. You bring us annihilation; we therefore wage the war you force upon us. You will remember that we’re real, and understand why you called us monsters. We will resist you, to the last one of us, if necessary.
You may still come. We run and hide from you no longer.
blood moon
the baying that proceeds
the battle
how terrible the silence
after
for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Fumeย #writephoto
Frank J. Tassone 
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