Freedom

A withered rose becomes a weed–
it spreads across every vine–
it strangles every seed.
Only fire can break them free,
but fire needs wood to burn.
Sometimes, bridges offer the best
fodder for fuel. Sometimes,
the cost is worth it.

A slave to the world
or a king of a stranded island
is a pauper either way. But,
in solitude, one has room
to grow. In society, forever
in the stranglehold of another’s
whim. Forever on prostrate knees
waiting to be clothed, sheltered, fed.

Sometimes, the house must be burnt,
the soil overturned, cemented.
Sand is shaky foundation,
rock is better, but steel is best.
Not even nature can shake it.
Though the world will quake
to stumble you back into place,
the world is beneath you, tucked away. Safe.

1 Comment

  1. February 19, 2012 at 6:56 am

    Very nice.


Critique

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