Freedom, my fickle friend,
How nice of you to come.
Shall I take your coat?
Or will you creep furtively in the corner like last time?

Why so shy, freedom?
Your reputation precedes you.
Your triumphs trumpeted universally,
You’ve an entourage of millions.

Ah,
Freedom has a secret.

Statuesque, god-like, beautiful.
I cut you open one night,
While you holidayed in Nod.
A cat in the night, I crept inside,
Looking to unlock my door.

Instead I seizured in nocturnal vision.

Your breath notstirred.
Your blood notran.
Your heart notbeated.

Shriveled demon,
There is no hiding under the scalpel.
Your mask is torn off.
You wolf in sheep’s clothing.
You rotten peach.

Come not when you are called,
For I know already too much self-contradiction.

The boardwalk hides the bloodstains.
Coveting.
He wrings his hands, licks his lips.
Savours them.
So many mottled sins.
They age well, so often forgotten,
But not by the boardwalk.
Oh, he remembers.
Barrels and barrels,
To sate his thirst –
The thirst of thousands.
Still, sate is quite the lie,
For, try as he might,
And though he certainly enjoys the quest,
Empty barrels salt the throat.
Taunt. Torture.
And he is always thirsty.