Trapped

How far can we run
If we can't escape?
Can we meet the sun
When our souls cry rape?

When you're all alone
And the silence howls,
Then the darkness moans
And your spirit prowls.

Your life that is
Grows pale and white.
And what might have been
Looms large and bright.

You ponder what choice
Led you to this pass,
Wondering when
It all slipped your grasp

And your future warped,
The pattern changed,
From what you hoped
To something caged.

Your vision blurred
What you hoped to see,
The sight preferred
Now fantasy.

And the world intrudes
with hard, cold fact.
The present extrudes
One single act

That allows no change,
No substitution
For the life you lead,
No restitution.

And so we plod
In chains of flesh,
Our spirits shod
In fetters fresh.

For even worse
Than being chained
By the endless curse
Of the Now ordained,

Is the dreams instilled
From our ages gone,
The hope distilled
Of the coming dawn.

For what is the caged man's
Fond behest?
No more than the dead man's
Last Request.

To see the sun, mayhap,
And feel the hope
Through the deadly wrap
Of the hangman's rope.

Or to drink the air,
And taste its life,
To keep knowledge fair
Against axeman's knife.

And so we are caught.
Our dreams make us prisoners.
For if we for nothing sought,
We'd be of nothing winners.

And we'd be happy with that.
Our desires would be sated
On the bones and the fat,
Our confinement abated.

We'd be automatons all:
Impervious, immune
To rebellion's call,
To Change's tune,

And complacent lie
With what we've got.
We would satisfy
In whatever lot

Would that be not
Sweet Paradise?
What price be bought
To be free of the vise

Of second-guessing,
Of regrets and disclaimers,
Of endless addressing
Our fears and disdainers.

Perhaps it's the nature
Of choice makes its curse,
That planning a future
May only make worse

Our failure when we see
It all come undone,
All our works made to be
Ashes, every one.

So would it not be better
To be blinded to what could be?
Follow orders to the letter
And never want to be free?

What gives you pause
When you draw your last breath?
Whether clutching at straws
Or welcoming death,

That choice you must make,
You must judge for yourself
One path you will take,
One path on the shelf.

To seek future's treasures,
Your passions for improvement,
Or hold fast to the pleasures
Of the present's procurement,

Either road you may choose,
There's no need to stand frozen.
You have nothing to lose
On the road you have chosen.