A CRY FOR FREEDOM © 2008

What exists outside is not real,

It is a genuine representation,

Within me lies the evil,

For not being cunning and playful.

What is left? Only to be

A bird flapping mournfully,

Without crumbs to peck at,

In the fleeting flight of the feast.

Useless as I am, in difference,

A being without opportunity,

The scene, the motto, the belief.

The landscape painted,

With sadness, for not being in the future

The destiny, the life, the fate.

I feel the void, the weight of absence,

In the brushstrokes of what does not come,

And I drag myself in unconsciousness,

In a world that ignores my beyond.

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