Mirages

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 lightest 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. * One of my earliest poems- written in my 20's.