In the Words of an 18th-Century Rope

I am a link between good and evil;

I am a rope.

I bind hands and restrain feet.

I pull and rub on flesh

until it becomes raw and bleeds.

I hang.

I choke.

I hold back potential,

and prevent freedom.

They call them slaves,

and assume they are all the same.

Yet I know that each one is different.

I hear them cry the names of their loved ones

in anguish.

Whisper their dreams of escape when alone.

They will soon tie me into a noose and use me to hang.

When they are done,

and he is hanging limp, body swaying in the calm breeze,

they will untie me and use me again and again

until I wear thin

or they cut me in two.

But much like the spirit of those they use me on,

my fibre can never be broken.