I'm bound hands and feet.
Resistance binds me all the more.
Someone shared a photo
holding it before my eyes -
me as a child on a stick horse
galloping like a pony under the great gray trees.
I wept so hard I thought
I might die but I didn't.
I was never happy before being reminded
but now I wonder what good it does.
Could there be a burning cipher,
a planted seed, a crack in the iron?
Imagine somewhere, I am told, other than here:
somehow other than this trussed up existence.
I wonder what good it does, seeing
that I can't move an eyelash
back towards innocence
nor forward towards liberation.
O child of God, it's a long journey.
Some days are better than others.