The freedom is found far from fitting in,
It’s relief cannot be measured,
There is no price to put on it,
A valuation most pay a life or two for.
A realization floods over every fiber,
It’s mark leaving scar tissue of the most beautiful kind,
Imprinting not freedom from others,
But binding to each passing soul.
Breathing slowly recaptures everything,
There is no avoidance of hard work,
A commitment to freedom summons
Heartfelt joy for the hardest possible task:
Looking into each others eyes,
And looking into your own.
You don’t just remove the
Crow of the rooster in the morning,
The crisp biting air,
Nor the sense of freedom.
This is lodged in you,
As it should with any person
Who’s come to their senses,
As the senses call you back.
If presented an opportunity to escape,
What would even be left for freedom?
The distance to travel is too great,
For it is wholly contained within.
There is a weight you cannot shoulder,
It pushes you down lower still,
An inner depth deep within the heart,
Barren while time washed through your hands.
Why heap pains on top of sicknesses?
Grinding of the teeth with a heart clenched,
Hiding in plain sight from the sorrows,
Justifying the extinguishing of passions.
The Suffering Servant King noticed of all this,
Held a cup,
And found your mangled heart at the bottom.
Fields of old birth new memories,
A place where freedom reigns,
The sun dictating when the game ends,
A warmth lingering within you for millennia.