Authy
Caged men who write
In his confinement, the caged
man sat at his desk, coupled
with crumpled papers and ink,
for he is a writer, and
he writes of the things he sees
through his shrouded window that
sits across the vast ocean.
The pictures he paints are of the
enormous ships filled with people who are
bestowed the will to still move about.
He captures their laughter with
captivating words.
He tells stories of their dresses, faces,
kisses, glistening shoes, ebony
and ember hair, of their beauty
and the birds that rove above them,
all, behind the walls of his bars.
I am a free man; I tread the earth
with my feet. I go places I please,
meet new faces, and always have
a different story to tell.
On my desk are crumpled papers
and ink. I write.
I write of my past, pain, and this
meager life.
I paint pictures of the things
that haunt me but are yet to devour me.
My sorrow hovers over me like
smoke from a burning flame.
I know what I must do, yet I do
not do what I must.
I know this world itself is a cage, yet
within this cage, I built an invisible
cage that grows smaller with
the passing seasons. I find it hard,
to breathe.
He is a caged man,
but in his confinement, he painted
freedom.
I too, am a caged man,
for in my freedom, I painted bondage.
~🖤✨️
