Freed

And so the cuffs fall away, rusted
As those delicately wrought silver handles
That bear your weight
I never asked to be your captive
And you my gaoler
It just happened
Now I am told the whole world is mine
Is it?
Or maybe buried beneath my burning feet
The soil here is harsh, inedible
Irrigated by rich black water
Which fruit will grow from this yellow wood?