An Emancipation Day poem by Stephen A. Dantes


The Battle Within


Is he the worst man alive
or just a cursed man?
Yea true he was the first man
-Yes, definitely the first man-
And nursed her close and
Sang velvet verses without words,
But he somehow became a dispersed man
when she traversed the dirt land.
Yes, dunes of sandy dirt, mehhnn,
Scattered across a universe of complication
Immersed in the reverse plan that made him the hurt-man.
He cried an outburst of a rehearsed stand
Then he smiled a hurst of emotion
raised above disbursed affection
Yet submersed in disturbed he-motions –
A coerced hand.
Dying with thirst for the old man
he begs himself to not be headfirst,
But she knows too well there’s no need to reimburse his efforts
It’s all too familiar
It’s all interspersed – a coppice of unfathomable pains.
He’s just the worst man
Even, possibly, a cursed man
And she doesn’t need that coat-man in her life
Neither can she afford such a cloak-man in her life
For change is meat for those that desire strength
And she knows that the very air he breaths enervates her
and leaves a trail of dirt
Like the flirtation of self-esteem with self-confidence,
The footprints are visible to all.
And the battle rages on,
In wards of shackled dreams and means that justify no end
In walls that whisper bitterly and cry out for freedom
This is as disconcerting as they come –
An assertion of mental incapacitation.
And the appropriate question to ask now is;
Who is he, who is she?
But only you can answer that.
Answers which lie beyond the chains we let bind us in the name of safety, and security, and longevity.
Is there any freedom that actually makes one free?
Is there any freedom that is, free?
Is there, freedom?
Is there…?

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