Dakota

Dakota

Dakota was happy.
Her beauty abundant.
Her honor was fragile
And later defiled.

Our fault was to covet.
Our yearn to posess.
Our gain was her grief
In excess spawned anguish.

Our conscience was cold.
Our will fierce and hot.
Our masterful schemes
Bore scandalous deeds.

Our ruthless machines
Crept over her skin.
Her innocent slumber
Caught under our thumbs.

We stole from her depths.
Victorious captors.
Incurable spoils from
Her wounds bear our lust.

We thrust in her bedrock
Infected with venom.
Tyrannical fools we
Messed up perfection.

We took her with greed
We poisoned her well.
Her shelter was truant.
Protection too late.

We sacked her whole house.
We battered her body.
We spotted and spoiled
And corrupted her soul.

Our pleasure is tarnished.
Our guilt is our plague.
We are the offenders.
Reduced by our needs.

Dakota she gushes.
Dakota is ours.
An island now flooded.
Her blood black and stained.

Anne La Berge 2015