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