He’s straining still against the chains
He feels them at his wrists
There is the fight, there is the pain,
And nothing else exists.
He’d tear his joints out of their place,
And break his feeble bones
To slip these bonds, to join the race,
To roll away the stone.
He was not meant to live this way,
Imprisoned by the noise,
Submerged beneath the ash of life
That chokes out all his joys.
– s. Clark
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