Hours made of aged years.
We exile the cliffs from our eyes.
For the tiny certainties of a valley.
Our years grew old.
Freedom is no longer a religion,
It is a day lonely, pedestrian,
With tears in its feet.
It's late in our life.
We realize there is no freedom.
There are too many tyrants inside us:
The blood, the solitude, the tears.
From Aged Mirrors - trilogyofthemirrors.com