A CRY FOR FREEDOM © 2008

The words sound false to me

When I utter them, I prefer

To feel them scarce in record,

But aimed in a shot.

With a chosen target

And precise in its aim,

Hitting the most feigned

That, wounded, says no, no.

Like others in the street

Wandering, moribund,

In the final naked attempt.

Linger in the dirty night

And depart demented,

Before life appears.

Each verse is a silent reflection

Of what is avoided to feel and see,

In a dance between the end and the all,

Where the soul resists without yielding.

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