Freedom was a writer from whom his name was stolen.
That of whom left his breaths on every page he wrote the meanings of which, were torn from his chest.
He was the fruit of his works,
of his labour.
And was the whistle in the wind that blew that blew through silence.
Hanging tastefully in the air.
A sweet sensation.
Who grew from dismality, was named and married to him as Hope.
The growths of their union,
the words of the tormented writer and the melodies of the candied breeze,
were songs of story sung for acres.
And who’s dawned legacies are the working times of their lovechildren,
Emancipation and Liberty.

I hope you have a good time
Good times, never lose you to time and tide
A man standing, or woman waiting
Can we find a balance, between two of these lovechildren
Waiting on the opposites sides of the floor, nobody moves
There's a water that crashes or takes the shape of teacups