They came in closed cars.
Silent.
For they hated what they had to do.
Caught in something longer than themselves.
Controlled. By the monster.

The pressure is building.
They think; I’m doing something wrong.
God knows. Everyone knows.
But it’s too late.
The monster’s sick.
It can’t wait, it can’t stay one size,
It needs—wants—insists—must have.

What justifies such greed?
Men created it, but they can’t control it.
Just a part of the monster. A robot in the seat.
They were no better.
Loved the land no more than it did.
Controlled by the monster that was stronger than they were.
It doesn’t breath air, it breathes profits.
Robbing the land, sucking all the blood and innocence out of it.
One house after the other.
Like factories.

Something is deeply wrong with this town.
Families no longer fighting to stay in their homes.
Aware that they cannot keep up.
Accepting the traumatic consequences of trusting the monster.
Watching everything they lived for disappear.
Born on the land, worked on it, and died on it.
That’s what made it theirs.
It belongs to the monster now.

Then, everyone leaves.
Nothing is left to remember the town that once was.
As if it never existed.
Completely stripped of all its content.
The land was not loved nor hated, it had no prayers or curses.
A piece of innocence, devoured by man’s greed.
It no longer has a purpose.
It belongs to the monster now.

Natalie Long ’18