He's there. tiny, but insistent. in every single
in every single
in every single human being on this planet.
in the recesses of our souls, he sits. not passively. always planning. always praying. always longing.
the bars around him made of iron, or maybe straw. it doesn't matter. caged. a gracious beast.
caged.
each day he wakes and chips away at his stolen throne. cuts at its hinges, lances the straw.
bursting, writhing.
praying.
longing to break out. not to dominate, but to radiate. not to destroy, but to save.
he waits. and waits. and waits.
he knows he can break through in one breath. but that would forsake love. because you can't make someone love you without negating free will.
he continues. each day he looks around and says, "this world is not my home." his home is freedom, his home is life.
one day we will find him, sitting in a dark corner. he will look up expectantly, tears in his eyes.
we will free him.
and we will fly.
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