When we try to win the world's affection,
we're sometimes left with the shackle of self-doubt,
or mistrust for a distorted world that numbs
itself from seeing the things we love. Out
of the cold hammer of bondage we ask
for the key that can open us up,
something as tangible as varnished brass,
where its weight presses into the dust
of our open hand. And love walks out
from its stone wall, its iron gate, as mortal
as any living thing severed at its roots.
It looks into the burning sky and shouts
its new name, celebrates the morale
of self-acceptance, the new road underfoot.
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