Freedom, what is your cage? Why is it that you no longer sing? What of your captor, can he not gauge The happiness that your melodies bring? Freedom, why are your wings tethered?
I scourge for your face in every passerby And when it is not you, I slowly die And am reborn by the hope that perchance The next might bear your resemblance...
What use have we of language today When we are content to say what we need to say By the touch of a hand or the twitch of the face By the clenching of a fist or a quickening of pace
I: I wonder at secrets sometimes- Fickle-minded fellows that remain quiet awhile Till a soft word from fate undoes them And then they come away, scattered, nude, bare and plain.