8 41 2020confinement
When spring is come
Freedom is but the illusion of choice, this dam that breaks when spring is come that sweeps away our will to change and smothers us into awakened sleep. We seek the glue that holds us fast, the nails that shut us off, the dirt that makes our hopes long last as it lies above our slumbering corpse. The morbid curiosity of lucid seers shan't liberate the mortal minds, yet the creators of verbal arts may well craft the urn that'll hold your ashes cold when time is past and spring is come, or so you'll hope.