Poetry: Freedom Unfound

White arc riding
a splatter on our shores.
A froth finding
the centre of earth’s moors.

Purpose is its direction
purposeless, let it be
the white twinkles like diamonds;
let it be.

Be the glass, my mirror
shatters, cuts the light
bars cage me.

Their edges the Bell Jar
we yearn for.

The world is a collection,
a mourning of what should have been.
Watch;
there are things skulking in the sea.

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