A Prisoner’s Freedom

By

Bill Cottringer

It took me awhile to see,

What it meant to be free,

Really, really free;

Strange words are the key—

Incarceration, life without parole,

Rehabilitation, restitution,

Restorative justice and G.E.D;

Cops, courts, lawyers and guards,

Cells, bars. lines and doors;

Lights out,

Daily counts,

Weekly visits,

Mail censorship;

But in the end,

These things matter not,

Freedom is a choice,

Not something taken,

Or imposed,

With laws and rules,

And do’s or don’ts,

Or rights and wrongs,

At the endof the day,

Only heroes and villains;

My wake-up call:

Freedom is a choice,

Which it will always be;

My choice is—

To act or react,

To think or feel,

To do or not;

To love or hate,

To blame or own,

To stay or leave,

To take or give;

Kind of odd,

They took my freedom,

So I could find it,

Again.

I now see,

I was always free;

To use my inner voice,

To make the right choice,

Being responsible,

For that choice,

To start over again,

Reaching for success,

From all this mess,

Which is always free,

And always there to see,

For me.