by Jerome A. Johnson

December 31, 2001

Freedom is a fragile thing; an orchid made of glass,
It has no smell or color, so we simply let it pass.

Freedom is a folly, undertaken by but a few;
The costs of such a folly; not know to me and you.

Freedom grew weak, as America grew, leaders lacking fortitude,
Our people, not hearing freedoms cry, allowed fear to set the mood.

Freedom is a taskmaster, that‘s why she was not kept,
Her price for freedom, paid in blood, cowards would not accept.

Freedom, I knew it as a child, this I can not deny,
The freedom I leave my children, is nothing, if not a lie.

Freedom has not left us, it’s known to but a few,
Our children can achieve it, and maybe we can too.

Freedom does not care, if you are black, disabled or gay, 
She does not care where you choose to live, or when or how you pray.

Freedoms chains, yes FREEDOMS CHAINS, are heavier than any other,
Because vigilance is her watchword and suspicion is her brother.

Freedom is not good intentions, its hard work and sacrifice;
Beware the man who takes a stand on the virtues of being nice.

Freedoms cry, now but a whisper, she needs to hear us say,
“With my blood I’ll water you, that you may return to us some day”!

The freedom that my father knew are long dead, in the past;
The freedom that I’ve come to know is simply broken glass.