Chains
Rusted, they no longer hold you,
no longer bind you to the past, straining
like Atlas holding a world not
of your making,
no longer wrapped around you
like a death embrace, false protection,
false love, false truth. No,
they are now
museum pieces, and you wonder
how you made them, what
madness caused you to forge each link,
one by slow one, what
blindness could not see the binding
was not theirs,
but yours and you laugh
even as you forge new links.
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The picture was taken in Rupert, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.
Tom
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