The narrative for freedom

There is a word missing in all this chaos, I have seen it, fire in the flames,stench of alcohol on its breath,it’s courage in ruins. Once it had wings,before it could fly and yet this broken winged bird,sits on the edge of the world,watching from its window sill. Poor little bird, trapped in its tower, cometh the man, cometh the hour, who will rescue you now. Yet there is a word that danced on the tongue, when time was so fleeting, when right knew no wrong, there was a word, as I glance upon my jailer, the diary of my question mark self. How do we find our freedom from here, seek the abundance in all the despair, tie up the laces, and pick up the run , gather the thread so the cobweb is spun, how do we find our freedom from here, caught in a narrative,of someone else’s,pain and despair.

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