With sagging shoulders
slumped like rolling hills
falling not as precipitously
as a promontory
but still falling,
with these shoulders
temporarily shrugged not so temporarily,
you take a deep breath,
and listen.
you know that the caged bird sings,
caged by the floor of cement,
caged by the convenience of cement,
but it still sings.
and summer knows not why.
maybe the bird doesn't know it's caged,
so its ignorance allows it melodies.
may a song have meaning,
if sung in ignorance?
like the worker's song
we chant and chime in
our rants and rhymes pin us
down.
for words aren't liberty.
forward isn't freedom.
then and now and then and now,
exist like cement,
only for convenience.
time is not an illusion,
just a simile.
because if we truly knew
what is
then the burden of knowledge would weigh us down,
slumping our shoulders.
but we don't need our shoulders to sing,
for that is how
a caged bird sings.
it doesn't have shoulders to slouch.