…through the keyhole of her confines, she sees how poor the world has become; Thence, she mutters;
can one ever really be free,
when all that lingers in captivity’s dust,
is the thin veiled irony,
wheezing, “Freedom cometh at a cost”?
…bleeding on knife-edge whilst waiting on the dawn of life’s beauty, a voice whispered within…
as life mirrors art,
days may seem sketchy and gray,
till you smear crayons.
breaking breathtaking barriers,
bewilders best brains.
and she said to me…
show me your dream plans,
heave me your broken pieces,
and I’ll build you up.
It’s that time again,
when he travels round the sun,
with hopes not to burn.