Getting out of a thoughtless prison
Was my subconscious metaphor
A belief subsystem for a child
Who felt trapped in the suburban
Backyard under the thumb of kind
Teachers but an education that gave
Little food to a passionate ferocity
A zest for orchards and nostalgia
For the Pacific, as another season
Passed in hallways, with no Rita
Hayworth to tunnel through
And a dream of injustices
That might be both revealed
And escaped at a single stroke
As my myth turns to mirth at the
Tenacious grasp of a hand upon
A cinematic dream
I do not any longer tear my shirt
At the moment I walk out any door
Into the rain
Rather I feel the drops
And keep a key
To come and go
At the pleasure of
A person at ease
With regard to Zhaungzi, for passing along an old key to the open door.
Roman Ryan 