She stands there,
head held up high
forever staring at the sky
until those men
(with their pitchforks and matches)
tear her down into debris.
She throws her torch
into the air,
not afraid of what's to come
but what would she say now
(to all of those tyrants talking)
when she looks down at this petty world.
She holds her book
with promises of liberty and freedom
and a new world;
she still lives in ignorance and bliss
(with hopes that shaped centuries)
not knowing we let her down like this.
Posted in response to the challenge Liberty.
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