Shackles

Some shackles cut into the flesh as pride
swells tissues softened by our weakness and
presumption. Shrunk by humility, wounds
cauterized by grace and mercy,
healthy limbs slip from the grip
of that which held us captive. Others
are more comfortable, more cherished bracelets
than bondage, shiny from the careful
daily polishing we give them, homage to
to their cold reality. The trap is there; it binds,
constrains, prevents our moving forward into the
freedom that we say we want, but so accustomed
are we to its presence, the metallic music that requires
us now to dance and then to sit and stay, the fetters
have become our friends, and we are loathe to
leave them even though the key lies well
within our reach.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013