Freedom is

- to each his own -

to some the wings to fly from home

to soar the sky

in search of the rumored happiness freedom is.


The choice he has

to spread his wings

and from his throat, the song he sings

- and on whomever it may fall -

the melody that is his.


Heartened so

in rushing wind,

still scaling sky as dark descends - 

this freedom thus bestowed upon

leads very much astray.


Panicked now,

for beaten path

to home has suffered freedom's wrath.

Night has fallen,

as has he who cannot find his way.


No choice now left

but folded wings,

treading softly as he sings

a song of sorrow, a blind search

for an old forsaken home.


Freedom is

- to each his own -

unearthing roots that long have grown.

Know then the path grows harder back,

for freedom is alone.


Yet still to each his own.




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