Freedom… is in the reclaiming of self.
The turning of life’s cyanide into honey.
And liberty, the pinnacle of color
Sketched to a world full of petals,
All of which grow from soil.
Perchance the squalid circumstances
Of our given lives,
Were none but a call to ripen.
For the life within a life is transcendental.
Forever searching out the ways the world has bisected us…
In order to unite us again,
With a kind of soundness so brave,
It drowns out the throe.
So you can see that beauty
In its most absolute forms,
Is not virgin to rancor.
It becomes from it.