The word revolves around itself,

draws edges to the form, 

of all that does appear to be;

of what I would call norm.


This freedom that does beckon,

which simpers and inspires,

is something still ephemeral;

not real and yet desired. 


We tell ourselves we can be free,

we label and mark sure,

and yet in this connectedness,

we’re held for evermore.


For life cannot be lived without,

the ties which bind and hold,

create the structure and the world;

no matter what we’re told.


The only freedom is within,

accepting all that comes,

and finding meaning, purpose;

no limits for us then.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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