Chained in a dungeon deep under ground, kneeling in filth on a moss covered stone floor, I was restrained by rage. Wrought iron manacles clasped around my throat and wrists. They restrained thighs and ankles. I knelt there, knees raw, neck thick with vulgarity. Even in the black of my cell, my vision was crimson, infused with a fury I could not quench, control, or understand. Perhaps the shackles were the make of someone else, but I donned them, loathing the world every day.
Then one day a bird chirped, waking me from the peace of slumber, the only time internal tantrums did not fill me. I could see the sun, and it was warm on my face. The shackles were shed, scattered across the stones, and I was no longer restrained. I was freed on that morning when I walked out of the open cell. God be good, God be graceful, a cell I shall never return to, nor set eyes upon, again.