Like medicine bound by a plastic capsule, I struggle to breath...
Never knowing which breath is the last...but the last breath could be the beginning...
Out of the capsule, I fly like a dandelion blowing in the wind, drifting on a cloud feather for a night or a year...A whisper in my ear...is it death who calls my name...that only I'm to blame...for wishing and dreaming is supposed to be upon stars, not broken hearts in jars...I let the sharp bite into the flesh and the crimson and clover feels warmer than any arms can bind me...lest they shackle me...and I race from the prison...the captive so near, like a voice in ear...could it be death?
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