The way to freedom is a line,
straight or a meandering vine,
circling and entwines,
never to join the beginning.
Do not think to what came before,
gone to be left evermore,
in the path you score,
what happens in a river?
As troubled water flows it pounds,
eroding till what was left drowns,
tumbling til it washes down,
the stain of its memory.
ronovanwrites 