The shackles have gone now, the fetters removed,

Detached from reality—twice, I claw at these leftover maroons

Marks long gone, yet still burn red,

They itch—these monstrous things—they hurt, they ache,

They snarl in the dead of night when I alone remain,


My lips speak freedom, my soul cries life,

But my wrists have only known the whispers of strife,

My shoulders droop, overburdened and heavy,

Still I cry out, because the promise of liberty,

Is too wonderful to live without,


It’s right there, as it has always been,

Just beyond reach, perfect little illusion,

It drives me mad and pushes me to the brink,

Mocks me with images that please everything,

Yet, at once, this keeps me sane—somehow,


And I don’t know what or who to believe in anymore,

Certainly not me; because when I look down the shackles are gone,

Their scratches were mere delusions, their pain was just the same,

My eyes are open and the world is clear—I can see!

My light is shining, it’s calling out to me,


Yet when I reach out, I swear those monstrous little things move,

Those imaginary grips tighten, and they murmur their unintelligible lies,

So soft, far too sweet—they reel me

Back into the comforts of their terribly tight embrace,

Where I’m trapped again, wondering why I should leave where I belong.


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