"Not So Free, Love"

Kinky strings of auburn thread

Threads low her sculpted head

Head down the feeble future ahead

“Ahead? I’d rather be dead, she said.

The race starts when the bells clash

Clash! Ripping through her sash

Sash hindering her love, a box brimming with ash

Ash found in the trash, oh how she left in a dash.

She chuckled at her silly rhymes.

Rhymes bleeding red through every thought and time

Time was the only sentence for her crime

Crimes, predetermined by her enzymes.

"Oh mother", cried the criminal who had yet stray

Stray from her mothers words, the last time her mother looked gay

Gay, another sinful words for those with her enzymes alike, weigh

Weigh her birthing sins and the amount to pay

The protagonist is now dead.

Dead and struck right where the auburn bled.

Bled through the core of the Earth, waiting for generations to feed

Feed our minds with more than just the daily bread.