For Free

You’re not getting out.
Not from this,
anyways.
The land doesn’t allow
shacks
with stone foundations,
or even dirt.
No home.
Just fines.
Because it devalues
the mansion
besides it.

You pay the price
but do not own
the land.
It takes you whole,
demands you give
more and more
slices of a pie
that’s been eaten
in order to breathe
in your home.
Otherwise
be without.

And should you find
some sticks to build,
even that
is someone else’s.
The stone, the water,
the dirt, the sky,
you have nothing
if but time
to sacrifice
to see it.

Unless,
somehow,
you hide away,
and breathe illegally.
You’re not your own,
but you can try
to build
the illusion
of freedom.

Rolling hills?
Rolling sagebrush
and mountains
and rocks
empty, rugged,
still not to be owned,
that age has passed,
so filter through
your blood and flesh
for specks of gold
and iron.

Because you weren’t born
for free.
Because you cannot live
for free.
And the gold inside your flesh

is all that’s left.

And even that
is iffy.

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