Knowledge is free.
But few are willing to pay the cost.
Tissue papers with broken dreams
want to be
mighty oaks,
touching the sky.

No one can be owned
she told the man who killed her
in the last breath she ever had.
Denying him,
even a chance
to believe it might be so.

Some day I will return here
an agent of change, for once.
The calendar as my only measure
surviving for years
on the amount of light
consumed in a single, solitary day.

©2006 Christopher Reilley

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