The cage is built of polished habits, Of "maybe later" and "not quite yet," A structure raised by quiet hours And debts we didn't know we’d met. It isn't iron bars that hold the spirit, But the weight of what we think we owe— To the clocks that pulse against the wrist, To the seeds we felt we had to sow. There is a phantom ache within the marrow, A memory of wind without a name, That whispers of the miles beyond the fence Where the wild and the weary look the same. To be free is to be a ghost in the machinery, To unthread the silver needle from the seam, And trade the comfort of the solid ground For the cold, electric current of a dream. It starts with a breath that tastes of salt, A sudden, sharp refusal to stay still, The realization that the lock is only rust And the only key is a steady, quiet will. So let the old skin tear and finally fall away, Leave the map and the heavy, gilded key; There is no path to where the soul belongs, Except to simply rise, and finally be. The sky does not demand a reason why, The mountain does not ask for your return, There is a grace in leaving things behind And letting all the smaller bridges burn. To walk until the shadows lose their shape, To speak a language only silence knows, Is to find the center of the open wild Where the only certain thing is how it glows