My eyes have adjusted to the up close, narrow sighted nature of my slavery,
My freedom exists in a compact world with the diversity of rocks, and sometimes I take myself there,
but awaken to the screeching sounds of my servitude,
Where is my freedom but in darkness? Was I once a fragment and now whole? Then who created me but my master? Or do I return to my home when I am most broken?
There is no beauty in this, no coloration that can guise my cleaved soul. My residue I leave is magnificent to behold. But in order to display my colors, I must be grasped with vigor, broken and drilled, my life is between a rock and a hard place.
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