What is his reality,

What is his existence? All is

controlled, all is threatened.

He trudges through mud stained snow

A step from slavery, but in a way already there

Freedom tasted, but the thirst not at all sated

In so long he forgets how it feels to not be trapped in fear.

The longer they are captive, the easier it is for habits to slip

Through frozen, worn fingers, grasping for bread and hope.

Not born into toil, but dragged into it. Punished by it.

Finding solace in his task and not his present surroundings,

Blessings where others see none,

Luck where others no longer believe in the notion