Those ethics of others,

Standing in my way,

Standing in the doorway

Of freedom;

I tell them,

“It’s just quicksand,

My friends,

Slipping through my fingers,

Before you drag me down.

It’s just quicksand;

And my ethics

May be wrong,

The may be conflicting

With your bladed words,

Said to be spoke of old;

If memories

And master kings

Could tell, they’d say it right,

I guess,

But they’re lost

Amongst that powder of the time.

I know of the now,

What it tells me is the truth:

That words of mine

Can be right too.”

Next I’ll slip away,

Like quicksand;

I’m just quicksand,

To my friends,

Quicksand between their hands. 

The End

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