The Same Storm
On Climate, Borders, and the Violence of Silence
They call it immigration.
But what they mean is: displacement.
What they don’t say is:
the storms are coming.
The crops are gone.
The wells are dry.
And the heat—
it doesn’t leave.
They say “crisis.”
But only when it crosses borders.
Not when it scorches forests,
or buries coastlines,
or chokes the sky with smoke so thick
it turns noon into night.
Lines on maps grow sharper.
Barbed.
Weapons drawn.
Paper walls turned steel and teeth —
to keep out the very chaos
we helped unleash.
Billboards in suits,
They hold tight to the matchbook
Spitting venom from behind too white-teeth.
Sitting high on thrones of coal and crude,
They sell futures to the highest bidder
And burn what’s left
For profit,
for pride.
Spin lies into policy.
Fear into law.
And call it order.
The death march of progress
But it’s the same storm.
Always has been.
Different winds.
Greed and fear —
next of kin.
But so are we.
We, the ones left to carry water
uphill while the sea eats the shore
We have the power
To say “no more”