Pen....And Paper

    Four walls, dark and eerie. They show years of memory, years of pain. Scratched into the stone walls were names, epitaphs, and last words. This chamber was different from the others. It held an unexpected painfulness, which seeped through the cracks, and evaporated into the air. Many a soul were trapped within the confines of this hell-cell. In the corner of this cell a shadow was cast, and hidden in this shadow was a man.
    This man was average, without the many years of imprisonment on his face. His clothes torn and skin ripped. His face carried a long, filthy beard and his eyes expressed no glimmer of hope. In his right hand he grasped a pen, in the left a rolled-up piece of paper.
    A ring of keys could be heard walking its' host toward this dark and gloomy cell. A key was placed in the door, the long awaited pop of the lock. The door swung open and a large hand came in from the shadows, and issued a gesture of obedience. It was a command that was not taken humbly by the prisoner.
    The man stood from the shadows and walked to the door, his back straight. The pen remained clutched in a fist and the scrolled paper was pressed to his chest. His eyes appeared much different in the light, than they had in the darkness of the cell.
    He was walked slowly down the hallway, accompanied by six vicious looking guards. Their hate towards the man was unapproachable to peace. The guards had been ordered not to touch the prisoner only to escort him to the parade ground.  At the end of the hallway two massive doors stared at the man, only increasing the feeling of hopelessness.
    The doors opened with a simple knock, and the sun's brightness pushed the man back. It had been two years since he had seen so much color or employed his nose to smelling the fresh air that filled the open corridor. The parade grounds were over crowded, the idea that a man and a pen could destroy so much had brought many of these people to the killing grounds. Their eyes filled with overwhelming with anger and thirst of retribution.
    The guards proceeded to lead the man to the gallows placed in the middle of the compound. It was a walk of five hundred feet but seemed like a journey to the man's legs.
    It felt relieving to walk again.
  
    The man stood on the gallows' platform and witnessed the disappointment in the millions of eyes that surrounded him. He raised the pen in his right hand and knelt down to place it at his feet. He opened the paper in his hand and his voice had to be cleared. His posture was straight and his chest up, an orator's stance.

     "Pen...and paper. You find them unrelenting and teeming with ideas you would rather not see come to existence. All men are created equal and are endowed by the same creator, the right to own one's opinion is but one of the most important rights a man can maintain. It is common sense that we are not all equal in ability, health, intelligence, and ambition. I was ambitious enough to pursue my ideas in writing, I spent many hours laying down thoughts upon paper only to find that I had been completely underhanded by my government. I used my words to attempt an assault on the government's ill use of power. I did not betray my country and I never intended so much explosive authority to be enforced upon a people who were only voicing their opinions. To the people I have faulted, I pray you forgive me for my reconstituted intentions and to those who remained faithful to the cause, I pray you forgive me as well for not being of greater service to the idea of freedom. The pen will always tell the truth, when written upon the paper of liberty."

   
  

The Last Warrior

    Riding down the desolate road on the back of a Harley, the man could see the reservation. Dirt and dust rose in the air behind the classic Harley, but the sound of the motorcycle suggested it was right out of the factory. The man who rode so ghostly upon the iron horse was quite big, although elderly.
    Bringing his motorcycle to a halt on top of a hill, he slowly dismounted the Harley. His face was ruff and worn, showing disappointment from the years of hard labor he longed through. The man's hair, long and black wore lines of silver, waved in the wind's breeze and his eyes were hollow after so many withering years.
    From out of the deserted land a shape in the distance started to form and as it moved closer, the man could see clearly that it was a dog. The dog was shaggy and looked as though he were worn after years of travel, his eyes were deep and sad. He took his place by the man's side and together they walked to the end of the hill, which overlooked a creek. The man began to rub his knee, probably from an old war wound.
    Night drifted over the sky bringing the moon, which was not supposed to be showing this night. The stars were particularly bright tonight and the night sky showed all of the constellations. The man had set a fire and it shined radiantly on the creek. The dog was sitting next to the man who had his eyes closed. Many hours went by and the man opened his eyes. The fire had long died out and all that remained was the light of the moon. The man's eyes were bright now and gazed out across the creek.
    Down by the creek, ghost like figures were now visible. They were dancing but not just any old dance, the Ghost Dance. These were the spirits of the men, women, and children massacred at Wounded Knee Creek.
    For hours upon hours the spirits danced and the man prayed for his Wachota brothers.
    The rays of the sun began to chase the moon away and the old Indian knew it was time. The dog that had so faithfully kept the man company was whimpering now. In an instant he was dead; the wind picked up and dogs body turned into the wind. A tear rolled down the man's face; down the warrior's face. He knew that the final spirit had died. Giving his last respects to the spirits, the Indian started his Harley and took one more look around.
    The last warrior rode off on his Harley towards the rising sun, but his body and motorcycle disappeared with the wind.
    The land is gone now to the Plains Indians, he has been captured and locked away on a plot of land. There are black birds in the sky and the buffalo cry. They outlawed the Ghost Dance.

Native America

Open-roads fill my day,

Always in front of me the great horizon,

No power lines on the side of the road.

Mountains tall and massive,

Grow larger as I get closer,

Misty tops and shaded sides.

As they disappear in the distance

a tear runs to my eye.

The motorcycle hums a song,

clicking as the gears shift.

The power of the engine circulates

through my body.

I am a drifter,

always on the move,

I never see civilization.

But I am a man of untold wisdom.

I see America as the Natives once had.

Open ways and open plains,

riding on the mountain range.

My skin is dark and my hair long,

I ride for the day the spirits come home.

My brothers are left on tiny pieces of land,

where they rot and cannot roam freely.

There are no more visions or vision quests,

The spirits have gone,

I ride for the day when the spirits come home,

I see the land as the Natives once did, Native America is where I live.