Snake hidden in the tree of my own thoughts,
Its coils around my knees constrict my steps.
Freedom falters,
And the bread of love turns bitter in my hands.
Each word I speak falls lifeless,
Like a wounded sparrow,
Plunging into silence.

Why do I cry?
Is it you who steals my freedom,
Or the shadows in my mind
That blur your face
And whisper doubt where trust once grew?

A storm brews in my spirit,
Paranoia’s tree taking root,
Its branches thick with imagined truths.
Am I the snake?
Is it my hand that tarnishes love,
Leaving only fragments of what once sustained us?

Still, I cry—
For love, for trust, for clarity.
For the sparrow’s flight,
For the bread unbroken,
For freedom to feel whole again