Freedom

Freedom is a crushed cerebral cortex,
the silencing of human nature.
For thought is bitterly two faced,
and each idea,
drawn in and out by Janus
has the destiny of both
Van Gogh’s swirling suns,
and the blank tyranny
of a smoked city night.
Without talking in our heads,
we stay in poppy-bliss,
yet our epiphanies are hurricanes,
never ceasing, tightening in our throats
to leave us entrenched and engrossed.
We may descend to a false release
when we are hanging by the whites
of brittle fingernails
on slavery’s precipice;
let an overdose of sparkling dopamine
lift from leaden eyes
like the mighty winter wave
to sweep the bulb of rotting skull
and tremble down the spine,
and through the veins.
Yet that too shall pass,
and kill,
but Death and Liberty
will bind
forever- indissolubly
and we will only be unleashed
when we are buried deep
for we will dig and dig for Freedom
as we soon will for coal.