When while the morning dawn,
reminds us of our task,
we must always ready our mind,
we ask a spiritual reckoning,
our assigned task,
turns suddenly routine
when while the morning dawn,
remains that reality.
Where do the wheels rewind,
waiting to turn with such alarm,
when while we wish for freedom,
their cylindric torment speaks a rhythmic taunt.
Would that when short lived my ask,
becomes such a search, an alarm,
a risk to only suggest I am the same,
when all of that confusion,
might rest upon a soul to grieve,
is then I might decide
to play the friction,
rather than feel the breeze
in a spindle’s release,
my axel is the clean whistle of freedom.