illustrated by rhoda penmarq
 freedom's just another word for something - i forget freedom's just a word, they say - and yet every night we dream - and of what? only freedom - the door we can never shut  why else in dreams do we fly? or care if we die? the murmurs from a distant shore there must be, must be something more  i ran away to find it, many years ago walked the empty highways, in sun and snow waiting for freedom to call my name but the beautiful whispering voice never came  the only voice that came to me was asking for my i d at the end of the endless trail the dreams were all for sale |
3 comments:
Byooful.
Definitely my favorite modern poet, with Arnold Schnabel second and Bukowski coming in third.
Oh, yeah, the pictures are pretty swell, too!
quite a statement, dan! i hope arnold's feelings aren't hurt (or mr bukowski's too). i thank you on horace's behalf - and let's not forget the fine efforts of madame in contacting him!
hey seems you are answering the crow again...
:)
this is sooooo beautiful! though i cannot dig how dreams can be for sale... they can't be dreams anymore... or perhaps they have not been dreams at all!
and timmy... guess what... the meaning of my family name is freedom!
our life's journey is from our family name to our first name... (a fact discovered by crow many years ago)... perhaps that's why our id's matter quite a bit... of course just as a map we might use while traveling...
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