A World in Chains

How do you uncage a mind—
When the world is in chains?

Your tongue twists knives into brushstrokes,
measuring tape strangling wild winds,
trying to tame, frame, name—
caging the sky in a box too small for its storms.

Cemented thought-cracks splitting—
shards of why, / dissecting the veins of a butterfly’s cry,
your hands scalp the storm,
make a map from the scream—
like naming a star cages its fire.

You gut the unknown, call it science—
burn the art, call it proof—
turn passion into puzzles,
art into autopsy,
label, dissect, analyze—
never letting it breathe.

But what does it mean?
What does it mean?
You chant it like a prayer,
like the answer will clean the blood from your hands,
like a name could stop a ghost from haunting.
Like the unknown owes you clarity.

You crave a thesis, a function, a rule.
You hunger for equations to cage the unchartable,
fingers clawing, grabbing, tearing at the edges of the unknown—
terrified to simply let it be.

But—does the river justify its song?
Do the stars explain their shine?
Does the sun apologize for rising?

No. Only the human hand is doubted.
Only the human soul is forced to justify its fire.

Oh, child of skepticism—
digging through the dirt of dreams,
seeking fractures, imperfections, cracks,
as if calling something broken
makes you whole.

And still, I paint, I write, I scream, I sculpt.
I carve my name into the void,
not to be understood—
but to exist.

And maybe one day,
you will stop looking for answers
and start feeling the art
before it fades.
Or is it your fear,
that you fade,
first