(Note: I've tried to improve the last 2 stanzas of this poem.) <br /> <br />I feel I'm living <br />in a small container. <br />My dreams are claustrophobic — <br />too prosaic, and always <br />there is something wrong. <br /> <br />I do not dream <br />of meadows or <br />or silence, or of stars. <br /> <br />I dream of car parts breaking, <br />of going to a restaurant where <br />the waitress never brings the food. <br /> <br />I'm hungry <br />for the life behind <br />the thoughts that I allow, <br />the life beyond control <br />of this persona. <br /> <br />And yet, <br />there's also another country <br />in the realm behind this mask — <br />one I've visited before — <br />where people turn <br />to stone, or weep <br />forever, <br /> <br />and the road to there runs <br />right beside the one <br />that leads Beyond, <br />and sometimes even twists <br />around it, all <br />but impossible <br />to tell apart.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/freedom-road-edit/
