Freedom is as free as empty hands,
as men who breathe fire down oil wells,
as the riots versus the scoundrels charging from each side of the street.
It was as open and significant as color coded buses,
files packed and boxed and hidden underneath a hero's death certificate;
as underdressed and hopeless as the witness of teh crime scene.
It still remains as homely as a homeless beggar praying for a drink,
a Roman conqueror tall above the hills with his swelled head,
a child with a sweetness still sticky around his lips.

Freedom is as empty as the man who held his arms to the sky
and prayed for cash and happiness to only get his wish;
as redundant as the broken record breathing, "I don't know how to believe"
and as lonely as the boy who keeps notches of the women kept between his teeth.
It is as heartfelt as a dying love song when the radio falls to sleep,
melodic as a lullaby woven in the sheets,
as human as the working man who sacrificed his dreams.

Freedom is the life and death of nation after culture after tribe
following in the footsteps of the family left behind,
the shoulder that awards the tearstains and the bleeds,
the lover that won't pick up the phone
on the weekend nights spent alone.

Freedom is as free as your shadow, your wallet, your grieving mother,
the lives lost in a culture war, the blood on your hands,
the television's exclamation soldier.
Freedom is as free as death prescribes
with each birth upon a new day
opening arms to newer lies.