Most Secret Poem by Daniel Artemas Harmon

Go strain against the enwrapping snare

and curse the silken, delicate bands

that tighter wind the more you strain.

Once you were free as bird in air,

now you are captive; see your hands

are torn and bleeding-even your brain

wearies at last and begs release.

How easy now it would be to choose,

now when the lungs gasp out for breath,

among three ways that lead to peace:

The first, to win, the second, to lose,

and the third way, which is death.