There was a high-pitched squeal.
The kind that makes you stop & feel.
Was it a call?
One that makes, one rethink that,
The very process of freedom is unreachable.
Suckling the breast of existence,
Burping the breath of life.
Continuous are the movements of growth.
Blinking clearly at the resonating of space, time, & the conceptualization of Self.
Based purely on the rhythmic flow of one’s being…
© Maxwanette A Poetess, All Rights Reserved.