If you glance a thought the other way
and turn a pretty head,
you find that you can't move at all
for fear of doom and death.
When the fear has passed away
you see it's quite contrived;
a shackle that you've self-imposed
to keep you by your side.
If the leash is loosed and thrown
to Hell and far away,
you might just find a freer man
who's turned from night to day.
And when the day turns dark with dusk
and lingers after hours,
you find your thoughts have shifted back
from sweet to bitter-sour.
Once again, the shackles loom
and close upon your feet,
the key quite close, within your grasp,
the gold a searing heat.
And when you choose to let it go,
and throw the metal off,
you choose instead to face your grace
and spurn, point, laugh and scoff.
No freer man of 23
would wish for freedom changed,
but lasting long is not his song
and with it he is hanged.
