What it Means to be on Top of the World

Across the roof top,
A small, grey blur
Scurries to the murmur
Of the gentle wind.

Freedom he grasps,
His limbs will not fail,
One shingle to the next,
Reaching the Holy Grail.

But louder she grows,
The wind, she cries,
And freedom trembles
Before his eyes.

Then, following the teardrop,
He looks below
At the warmth inside,
The hearth, aglow.

Freedom he would give to be warm and safe,
but, alas, his freedom he cannot escape.