The night hangs low and shatters treetops
Like a brain bludgeoned against a wall,
Bone obliterated, thought incinerated,
Oozing toward the denuded earth,
And I resist.
Sleepless, restless, hopeless—yes.
Still I resist.

The night hangs low and settles in, a manmade fog,
An invading hoard with a pioneer’s design
To exterminate indigenous peoples and their land;
Entrenched in the trampled mud, hurling
My final stanzas at the illiterate wind,
I resist. 

The night hangs low and heavy
Like a curtain drawn across a map,
And in all corners good people slumber,
Dreamless, as nightmares strike
Like meteors murdering love;
Beleaguered, besieged, benighted—yes.
Still I resist. 

The world spins and morning dawns putrid,
Unable to exhale, devoid of color,
The stench of surrender thick as cotton, weaving
The prison uniform of a dry, disgusting future—
And still I resist.

I am unprepared. I am resolute. I tremble like a hypothermic forest.
I conjure a bright and sunny future and sally forth:
I resist. I resist. I resist. I resist!