1 writings to our mother
Your Freedom Isn’ t Yours by Sid Baron
Is there a problem?
Plastic lights
Strung on gold chain Burnt clean, and fastened
There is at once a mirror And a mourning That you see
Ever so disorientation and casual momentum,
Morning fissures Black down,
For words that just can’ t seem To mean, quite what you Intend
If you intend, you see?
And yet you say there is. And when you say there is Distinction isn’ t made,
Nor produced,
Feeds through loops And faith Continues
Running backwards Falling forwards Angled inwards
Through wings tied Forward- forwars, for words
That just can’ t seem –
Is there? I don’ t think there is.
Not found, For loss on aging ears.
Please decide, For I can’ t do it for you
Is there a problem?
Is there a problem, Well let me see; What are the tropes