Is freedom merely illusion
like a mirage, so real, so clear?
Do I struggle in vain to reach it,
just to watch it disappear?
An elusive, distant shimmering dream,
promising sweet salvation?
Or cruel, false- hearted trickster
amidst uncaring desolation?
Mirages are built of need and hope,
tricks of refracted light.
A desert isn't always sand
nor blindness lack of sight.
A prison can be a desert,
the need for freedom an awful thirst,
yet, like a gossamer soap bubble,
which the slightest touch will burst.
Freedom is ever distant,
a capricious memory
each time I try to grasp it,
it slips away from me.
At times it seems that's all there is,
a goal I chase in vain.
An ever beckoning mirage
that I never can attain.


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