To write, or not to do so,
in ink, pixels, or pencil;
to express my views or not,
and risk being ostracized?
This climate of intolerance
sprung up as if overnight,
from an inflexible critique
of everything under the sun.
The seasons are changing
and the times are rearranging;
the values of the past have become,
like branches that must be pruned.
Yet, each time they grow anew,
they are trimmed back even further;
until, perhaps, nothing will be left,
except the barren trunk of a tree.
And, when that is reduced to nothing
except for a stump, planted firmly in the ground,
the seedlings will quietly sprout up elsewhere,
remaining hidden, until the light reappears.