a freedom, without wings

I am after all
a bag of skin,
stuffed with things
meant for me
and the world -
hand-picked earth,
with stones and seeds,
remains and worms,

a fistful of nothing,
always wanting
to be something,
caught in the frenzy of a world
which makes meaning
out of everything
and anything
that is meaningless,

a halfhearted escape
from the talons of death,
when every cry
from every heart,
that only wants to love
and be loved,
melts into the silence
of a freedom,
without wings.