Freedom is a fire on
My fingertips at
night,
By day a distant
dancer
On the peripheries of
sight;
But when the evening
comes,
She turns into a
flame,
Burning up my irises
Beckoning my gaze.
And this I gladly
give,
This little I can do,
For the fire is impalpable
& Her dance is
but a ruse.
Yet wittingly,
willfully,
I foolishly look on,
With the hope of slipping
through
My soft synaptic
bonds
Before I waste away
To a raisin of a soul
&
My blood becomes
stardust &
My heart reverts to
coal.
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