In later hours the wrist takes its liberty
Vision dances loosely on the brink of slumber
And still, the compositions present themselves.
With less control there is more risk
The relaxed state promotes flimsy with flow
A grace-line that knows to roam freely
When sleep takes its leisure as limbs give in to rest.
Two nights now, a slight pattern - forming
The wavy vibrations toy with visible dimension...
Or so I am told.
To what do we attribute to, this midnight muse?
Who glides in gypsy formation
In indelible strokes?
As the severing of workloads cement themselves
I too, like the wrist, post-slumber
Take some Liberty of my own.
Who knew something so powerful as an Inalienable Right
Would be proudly invoked
In a world now parading with the illusion of 'Free'?
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