Paradise, he declares while I
proceed to speak of chains.
I am Con-Tiki in reverse,
a raft that’s weathered wind and wave.
But I’ve tethered me to this here shore,
I’m jealous of the roaming tide;
these feet that wander rarely now,
this heart traversing cloud.

Freedom, his desire’s for while
forty-five million slaves cry out.
Deaf to their lament, their groans,
blind to his own bondage.
What do we know, anyway,
of freedom? I think but do not say.
Somehow we’ve just juxtaposed
the brick kilns with your mortgage.

We ruptured something sacred then
in the fabric of propriety;
a word, a confession, a conversation
that broached the light of liberty.
We scaffolded our feelings so carefully,
preparing to articulate.
But look what’s scattered, the aftermath
of things we left unsaid.

Sunshine, too much wine –
I’m wiped out by your melancholy.
I am a bird too fond of folly,
flew into a cage, didn’t I,
and now I’m trapped in Paradise.

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