I stand imprisoned. Bound by the dictates and restrictions of an arbitrary nature. My crimes were never of omission, but of commission. Tying myself too closely to the apparatus that would spell my destruction.
But I remain a man of vision. Dreams of freedom and flight make all things possible. No longer am I surrounded. No more will I rattle the tin cup of my despair across the iron bars of life.
Between each bar, there is space. Between my cell and the fence, there is space. Looking over the barbs until they vanish through perspective, there is space. From here to the guard tower of my conscience, there is even more space.
In space, there is freedom.
In space, flight is possible.
In space, my tired muse can spread
its wings and soar.
I stand in my prison cell, and can imagine my liberation. I freely cross the yard to the armed fence. I climb the chain link and hurl myself through the barbs, shredding my indignation and animus. I run for the tower, dodging the bullets of a vindictive jailer. In my mind I embrace freedom.
But, these shackles are quite another story.