The steps you take are big
where mine are small,
the steps I take are soft
while yours make imprints.
For now it seems that I am lazy
as you wipe sweat off your brow,
try to understand my empathy
for oak trees rooted to the ground,
and take heed in the soil, though I may
not make a sound, a drop of rain
breathing life, the only way I know how.
A brief wave of empathy.
A surge of relief.
Icy cold goosebumps.
Cover to cover.
Nearly 600 pages like chains.
And now, Freedom?
I beg to differ, you see…
The shackles leave marks,
Deep reddish grooves on ankles, on wrists.
So tender, the flesh.
They are much more cozy than I see elsewhere.
They are much more honest, you see…
I leave them off a short while.
To make a sandwich. To use the loo. To make chump change.
But know I must put them back on again.
Because freedom isn’t frolicking aimless as a loon.
Freedom is trusting the sincerity of our chains.