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.