It hangs there over long,
a middle finger to the sky;
a chin flick to the ground,
amorous
only towards and for freedom.

A heavy hand may cast it out,
and it will settle in ones more gentle,
but freedom
is all it is and ever will be.

Let others seek it out in envy
finding only futility.
In the dirt or in hands,
it is nothing once stopped,
pinned down;
anchored to another’s will.