I’ve convinced myself that freedom means giving the chain some slack.
I can wave my arms and aside from the metallic clanging
And bruised throbbing in my wrists I can breathe in the facade of liberation.
Lying atop the glinting cuffs,
Concealing them from sight,
Kicking their snaking coils under my cot,
Close my eyes, imagine they don’t exist—
But then I watch my crimes,
Projected in slow motion and muted colors in the Mind’s Eye theater.
If only. If only. If only.
Yet as long as I elevate a weighted head, squint passed the bars and see,
That’s where freedom is, than maybe I’m there?
I’m existential—freedom is relative, it’s all in my head.
If I wanted to I could dissolve these tarnished shackles.
Then why are they still there? Why am I still here?
I’m lying.
I couldn’t.
But you can.
Bonds thrust taut like Sampson between pillars I bawl for mercy—
Forgive me.
Amidst primordial groans, through tear blurred eyes—
Forgive me.
Bubbling incoherent tongues of penitence—
Forgive me.
A silhouette, a chiming jingle, the turnkey’s footsteps—
You heard.
With an ancient bleat, sealed so long, the cell door pivots open.
Fetters melt to briny crimson puddles.
The jailer, distantly departing, turns.
Holding his hands skyward like lightning rods
Colliding thunder reverberates as the prison walls collapse.
The spirit charged air pours a torrent of watts instead of raindrops
Surging currents rise, sibilating to deafening volume.
Rising. Rising. Rising Louder. LOUDER!
Vanishing—silence.
A charcoal sky. A deserted hill.
A torn veil. A whispered voice—
It is finished.
