He wields it like a broadsword, and with a pompous pride. He assumes he has a moral right to have it by his side. He worships all it stands for, a simple devotee, and if it hurts and causes pain – it’s not his fault you see.
It lives inside, surviving at my expense. Parasitic, it takes nourishment from my hope and will. Freedom cowers under its viscous fog. When it slumbers it is weak but rests somewhere safe.