by Charlie Willis
Nothing you have done wraps its chains
around your ankles and drags you
away from a sunset streaked with gold,
and nothing you have done takes you
by the hand and leads you
along a lucky path to freedom.
For we are all picking things up and
trying things out, and trying things on
ripping them open, tying them up
and dropping them down.
But we are walking empty-handed.
And everyone is empty-handed.
Everyone is a blank page that is drawn on
and written on and spat on and coloured in
and then wiped clean.
And the next thing is yours
as much as it’s mine.