It is a fine day

It is a fine day

To be thinking

About freedom

From encumbrance

New songs are just old songs

Once they are sung.

Over a cup of coffee

In the morning

When the slate is clean

Before the last word

Has been written

The refuse will be collected

The crumpled sheets

Rolled scraps and throwaway lines

Will be erased

What did they mean

How much weight did they carry

Without a curse

Mention of a lesser god

Or the answer to the riddle

Of our survival

How much more

Can be tolerated

When so little is understood

There are only so many combinations

Of a password

No matter how complex

The sequence will be revealed

What will happen

When the wind is a changeling

Everything will be in disarray

Meanings will be lost

With little chance

To reclassify and reorder

How do we begin again

When the ink

Has run dry

There is no signature

On any document

To bring relief

To the empty promise

If release was easy

Then we would

Just throw out the trash

With the coffee grinds

And freedom would be

Unconditional.