Resilience

 
Brisbane, 2156.
This city gave up on trees like a bad habit.
It just kept stacking concrete on concrete,
trying to drown out the sky.

Nature? Illegal now.
Real plants are contraband,
the kind of thing you'd find in a smuggler’s pocket,
wedged between pills and regret.
What we’ve got instead are these fake trees,
metal skeletons that buzz and flicker,
trying too damn hard to look alive.

The Wardens prowl like lost dogs with a taste for blood,
clad in iron, as if remorse was something you could wear.
Their job is to crush anything that dares to be soft.
No flowers, no ferns, no grass you can run your hands through.
Nothing that remembers what rain feels like.

But then there’s this kid, Libby.
Not tall enough to look anyone in the eye,
but stubborn enough to try.
She finds a seed in the pavement,
just a speck, something most people would piss on and forget.
But not Libby.
She picks it up like a secret,
holds it close like a promise she doesn’t trust herself to make.

She kneels down, shoves it into the dirt—
what little’s left of it—
and gives it her water rations.
One drop, then another,
like it’s a prayer nobody’s listening to.
And suddenly, it’s not just a seed anymore;
it’s a middle finger to the whole damn city.

The thing starts to grow,
a spindly sprout that shakes like a drunk trying to get to his feet.
And the people—
they notice, then they cling,
like they’ve finally remembered they’ve got lungs.
Resilience here is like a bad joke,
but it’s the only one worth telling.

And right on cue,
the Wardens show up,
all heavy boots and bad breath,
grunting “Step aside,”
like they’re tired of hearing their own voices.
But Libby?
She doesn’t budge.
“It’s ours,” she spits,
like she actually believes it.

The crowd grows behind her,
a mess of dirty faces and hollow eyes,
all of them pretending not to be afraid.
It’s ridiculous, really—
protecting a sapling like it’s the last slice of bread in a starving city.
But then again,
what’s more ridiculous than banning nature?

Resilience here isn’t poetic.
It’s not heroic, either.
It’s a grim, stupid urge that says,
“I’m not done yet,”
even when everything tastes like rust.

The sun still sets between these glass towers,
casting shadows that linger like a hangover.
And that sapling—
awkward, ugly,
roots clinging to cracked pavement like it’s got nowhere else to be.

And if you stand there long enough,
just long enough to forget how serious the world is,
you might hear it—
Libby’s laugh, rough and unexpected,
like a punchline to a joke nobody wanted to tell.