Around my ankles lies the chains
once bound me to the wall, in pain
The black key came and freed
this poor soul from daily bleeds
The door of the dank cell, left open
I can walk free, no longer broken

And yet, why can't I stand?
I send my body the will and demand
But here I sit with the chains on the wall
The air of life breathes in, but I don't stand tall
"There's the door, why be a fool?" I question
What do I fear of freedom?

"The air is cold, too unkind," I say
"In this cell is warmth, far more than the day."
"The air is stale here, go out and breathe!"
My reason shouts, and I try to heave
myself up, but passion tugs me down
"Go out there and once more you'll drown!"

As they quarrel, I cast down my gaze
to stare upon my once captive chains
They were made of no cold iron or steel
but of red thread, spun from the wheel
They did not chaff, but left me warm
But they took weight as they were worn

The room used to be a suite, not a cell.
When did all the loveliness turn to hell?
What now binds me to stay, despite the pain?
Why can't I leave with them off, these red thread chains?
Was it easier to dwell in this
nothing out there I would miss?

Reason makes me crawl toward the door
Passion slows me, the room it adores
Logic has me stand at the threshold
My heart has cling to the door, not to be bold
At the door, upon my weak knees
Refusing to move on, refusing to be free.