These hands were supposed to burn me alive.
They won’t anymore.
The ripping of sound, right here in my ears;
It is pretty much quiet now.
Silenced.
No one can see that,
The subtle senses, making us feel the wind in our hearts.
It tastes like hurricanes.
It tastes like cinnamon.
All memories have fragmented tastes,
All but one.
This one is well kept. Huge.
You have to understand,
My desire for freedom is nearly as grand.
And it is sick of giving in,
Sick of being torn…
