Freedom

In a barren field

I plead for freedom

But collapsing

I cry to the sky

Empty dirt

I shovel with these

Clammy pale fingers

And a bitter sigh

Chilly air

Smells of decay

There is my wretched

Desperation high

I sprint through

White grass

Until the light 

Has long gone home

Empty spirits

Breath through

These frozen lips

I roam

"Where would you go
On those chilly nights?"

These lips

Are sewn


Best, 
Anna Belle Lee