Unbound

They call it a gift, they call it a right,
but freedom is shackled, kept out of sight.
They twist the meaning, they shape the tale,
preach from the pulpit, but justice is frail.

They whisper of will, of power, of fate,
but only for those who hold the estate.
The young are molded, their fire confined,
dreams are diluted, their hands redefined.

A game is dealt, the table is set,
play your hand, place your bet.
But the bluffer, the shark, the one who deceives,
they too are bound by the weight of their greed.

The politician, the preacher, the ones who decide,
hide behind power, yet still are denied.
For freedom’s not wealth, not power, not gold,
not something to barter, to buy, or to hold.

It’s promised to all, yet given to few,
a tale that is told, but never is true.
They teach us to follow, to bend and obey,
to work without question, to kneel and to pray.

They feed us the lines, they tell us we’re free,
while chaining our minds so we cannot see.
But will is not something that they can bestow,
it lives in the places they don’t want to go.

It lingers in questions, in doubt, in defiance,
in breaking the silence, rejecting compliance.
It hums in the heartbeat, it burns in the chest,
it lives in the restless, the ones who protest.

True will is a whisper, a pulse in the chest,
a thought unrestrained, a mind unimpressed.
Not in the speeches, the rules they bestow,
but simply,
the power to wiggle your toe.