Ink Without Chains

The page is blank, a sacred field,

Where sword and song and soul are healed.

No chains may bind what truth demands,

But every line must mind its hands.

To write is not to roar or reign,

But tend the heart, not flaunt the pain.

A voice can rise, and still be kind—

It need not blind, it need not bind.

What good is art if it divides,

If all it fuels are darker tides?

Let ink be freedom, not a flame—

To tell the tale, not play the game.

Create, but with a conscience wide—

With love and honor as your guide.