Treat me like the trash,
crush me up into a powder
or burn my fragile soul
in the wind of your harsh words.
there isn't any escape left
from the bars of oppression
yet I will strive till the last drop
to become the beautiful beginning of a bitter end.
I so desire to be that verse
written within the essence of her dreams;
the colors of imagination in the palette of her iris;
a metaphor to describe
that heaven exists in her heart
or to flow as a trail of tears from her eyes.
Can't this be enough
to let me breathe in the ink of forgiveness?
Should I lay down beneath the blocks
to perform in that musty theater
among the dead flock
upon the crescendo of silence one last time?