Perchance, the path to freedom is at hand -
a line upon the sand we cannot break,
the flames we slake, deliberately fanned,
expression’s venom planned and fed to snakes.
My bonds, they take the form of blocking thoughts,
no wisdom sought by peritropal mimes
who act in time to tethered footsteps’ faults -
a play once caught in satire’s avid times.
So, by design, I’ll break the phantom curse
and write my verse upon a sordid screen,
with unclean words - the terrorists of terse -
that writhe and burst to redefine ‘obscene.’
Unclothed, unbidden passion on the wing,
emancipating dreams of which I sing.
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