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.

Instead…
It becomes from it.