Handles of Freedom

A fray, a strand, a clinging leaf, a handle.

What the cost of freedom?

Do I hang to all the is given to me, as though, it were my last breath?

Do I become everything expected of me?

Though it makes my movement less.

Years before my age, the distance of choice, further and further out of reach.

I am as free today…as I will ever be.

I dangle from fresh, baby pine.

I spin my web as I choose.

I do not need to enter the roads in which I have been led.