C H A I N S

There are chains around my neck,

Clean, polished metal kissing vulnerable skin.

I cannot recall who placed it there or if it was my own hands

That tossed this weight across my shoulders.

I only remember that it was hot,

Fresh from the forge

Where some god of metal dirties his hands all day every day

To appease the deities above.

Maybe it is me who put in the request

To be chained to the ground,

Shackled to the iron of this place,

Weighed down with the promise that I could not escape

Even if I wanted to

And I want to.

The chains promise me it's an impossibility.

Is the impossible pretty to me?

Has it become shadowed by the silver dagger of reality?

Or maybe my vision is the one that is stained glass.

Red for the hate of my past,

Green for the contempt of the strings in my hands,

Pulling nothing but the collar on my own neck.

Did I place that there too?

Or was I born with it?

A collar of class

With my predetermined slot in life

Already carved into the metal.

Into my flesh.

Because it is my flesh that is burning from this mortal punishment,

Isn't it?