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Shackles are History
by
Rusty Broadspear
Dying within control, tight, restricted,
insane,
Crawling inwards, outwards, scraping nails, inhumane.
A dripping tap, a rattling chain,
In every box, in everybody, in every vein.
Some years ago I left my box collapsing, in the rain.
Stopped, turned around, kicked it hard, again and again.
Finally I walked away, tears of laughter, free of pain,
Elation effervescing, unable to contain.
Choice, freewill, integrity, freely rein,
My words written, without restriction, devoid of stain.
Unreservedly spoken in a ‘boxless world’ campaign.
Insanity annihilated in this inspirational world of sane.
Fragrances of nature, too complex to explain,
Sweeping through my being, like a silent express train.
Sun rays and Moon beams morph within my brain,
Growing ever brighter, as do bubbles in champagne.
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