The · Word · Pirate

Tell me, father sky
atop this painted mountain
no longer blocked by granite side
now free to stumble off in any direction
but yours
is this what freedom offers?
was this worth the climb?

I have all under my feet, and nothing but the barest rock
Here, unrestrained, smiled on by chill gust,
I call out
Freedom only seems
an end--
a mist that drifts - a blank canvas-- a mere start
the flat white square is not art!

How have I leaped after dreams
and yet brought no brush, no stroke, no shape?
I see them below, past, escaped!

but free, to create
and love--
just as I see you now, alone, above--
blessed to stand on freedom's stone

and reach!