The Bird of Freedom

THE BIRD OF FREEDOM THE BIRD OF FREEDOM There are those who are so selfish, wanting to keep me all to themselves Forever keeping me hidden; between, their own, unreadable bookshelves Never really knowing, that they were destroying, the very thing they love Force me from a bird of beauty, to no more than an unwanted rock dove Come home only to open all the pages, and then read of their own abuse To satisfy their own sadden inner insecurities until I no longer have a use No longer able to fulfill your selfish unrestrained, unwanted, unbridled lust Abandoned and forgotten the pages slowly crumbled; they turn into dust Dustpan and brush in hand, you then cast me to the open carrying winds Not really knowing; it is the bird of freedom that in the very end who wins Indiana Shaw . . .