Freedom?

Freedom they said,

born into fredom.

Free ideas that race like wild stallons,

skipping across an empty night,

waiting for them to fill it.

Through the trees ripen with sumptuous fruit,

the sweet taste of distant possibilty,

so close their muzzles nealy graze it.

Persuasion bellows in the hands,

Temptaion in the eyes,

Fear in their stomachs,

for what is not seen,

and Conflction in her mind.

They leap with a promise,

this promise of freedom,

yet fall with a pain that is silent

but eats away at her heart,

day by day for enternity,

paying for her freedom.