Freedom

Her freedom was the boundless sky
A perfect, crystalline blue
Once she had tasted true freedom, though,
She didn't know what to do.
She silently walked through the garden
Everything dead and bare
The only thing that dared to move
Was her long, dark hair.
In her pocket was a tattered note
The paper yellowed with age
The lines were hardly legible
The pen lines starting to fade.
"Meet me in the garden, where the weeds grow tall."
She went to the gate
Glancing side to side, she saw
No one at all.
C'est la vie.
On the hill, sitting Indian-style
She looked up to the sky:
A perfect, crystalline blue.