Inexorable
They told the earth to stay still.
They built endless ceilings over rivers,
spines of steel stitching the sky,
laid stone over roots like a suffocating blanket,
cut down the wild and called it progress.
Still, the earth refused.
Rivers bent their backs but never broke,
roots pressed upward,
splitting their concrete cages with quiet insistence.
And you—
you travel to see it,
to marvel at the stubborn beauty of it all.
You call the wild beautiful,
stand in awe of mountains that refuse to bow,
trace the scars of ancient trees
and call them sacred.
But when you see yourself—
your own cracks,
your roots pushing through torment,
your rivers carving paths through chaos—
you forget to marvel.
You call your resilience survival,
but never beauty.
They told the earth to stay still.
It didn’t.
Neither should you.