One I wrote a looooong time ago

In my youth I wrote what can only be described as an embarrassingly large number of embarrassingly bad sonnets.  Leafing through them now, I find one or two that don't immediately induce nausea, so I thought I'd share one that's actually on-topic for this forum. 

There's nothing autobiographical in it, nor did I write it as a catharsis for anything.  The real reason is much more geeky and mundane, alas, and scarcely worth mentioning.  Regardless, I hope you'll give it a read.

Feedback is appreciated, of course, and feel free to hit it as hard as you can. 

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He is not free if, free, he bears that chain
That held and holds his life, withholding breath.
For, living, he may die and yet remain
As bound in shackle as unbound by death.
He is not dead if, buried, he yet dreams
Of life and of that body in his grave.
For, living, he may sleep and therefore seem
A withered corpse none easily could save.
He is not saved whose savior saves him not,
And torments end in torments still to come.
For, living, he may live as yet to rot
In fostering the man that he's become.
Within him sleeps a living soul betrayed;
Is he not evil who is evil made?
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