Freedom

What if freedom
is not a right, but memory;
a voice that once sang everywhere,
now whispering at the margins?

​

Not a creature caged or threatened,
but a vanishing point
at the edge of our awareness.

Could you hear it
that suddenly fragile song
when it no longer holds us
or redeems us,
but moves
as an echo through us all?

​

A slave does not know he is bound
when his choices bear flavors
long ago inscribed
by another’s hand.

And still they say:
choose:
vanilla, steel, or silence.

​

Let us rise
above the lines,
the serial numbers, the frames,
where space opens
for what has yet to be spoken,
for what dares to come into being.

​

Then this reality
is no longer what is given to us,
but what we
shape in vulnerability and imagination.

Our truth,
Our freedom.