happiness is never grand

what do we do when our hands
fumble for the freedom,
the wood bleeding between
gnashing teeth and
thoughts uprooted when
we try to touch the heavens
while standing on

we finally taste
the frost,
of the cleanest
slate, and the whitest
the snow might be melting
but the cold won’t
leave our bones the starlight
absent in nerve endings,
the lightning gone

we are left with
eyes blurred by mist,
both hands fidgeting under the
liberty, shaky
under the
under waves of thunder
and the sun,
hoping, and longing
for shackles to
chain us to earth


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