Why dream
	Of worlds unborn,
	When we are chained
	With pain
	To the only sphere
	We know?
	Does not the prisoner
	Oft grasp
	The iron of his cell
	And, raging,
	Shake and shake
	In hopes
	Some hidden flaw
	Will allow him
	To be free?
	How often
	We rail at reality,
	Knowing that,
	In some mysterious way,
	Just beyond
	Lies some other land
	More bountiful
	And free.
	Where is the flaw
	In our cosmic cell,
	The warp
	Through which we
	Might flee
	Our dull, delightless
	Lives?
	Where do our hopes
	Come to be,
	When hoped,
	They take wing
	Across eternity?
	Where are mended
	Broken dreams,
	Where fulfilled
	Our schemes
	Of love unrequited?
	Are there other worlds
	From our sight
	Kept hidden?
	We rage and rage--
	But cannot
	Break our living cage.

6/24/77 Portland, Oregon

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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