Free, that I am but it is not what I wanted,
To be beaten and whipped like captive in gauntlet,
A parting loves end, the path of your choosing,
Unaffected by this mans' head and heart bruising,
And your blood is colder than late Winters' frost,
And now most certainly all has been lost,
For what is free when the heart aches from longing?
The head and the body are sick from the wanting,
No recourse or remedy, no proper redress,
No! Freedom for me tis a fate worse than death!
w.b. JS