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I feel as though I am dying on the side of the road, as the dust coalesces and sweeps into my bleeding withered lungs. In this city of dust. Dust and jagged dry rock. I cling to you like you're my last drop of water. In this desert of unendurable heat. It scrapes the flesh off my bones. The passerby's pass by and in their apathy they do not see. I long for something cold and green. But it is all for the best that they do not see me. For what I cannot be theirs. That in and of itself is a measure of freedom. Is a measure of victory. To the devistaing pain. It's a light, eerie light in the blue of the sky. In the dust of my soul. Even the rain is dry. It seeps over my rib cage, over my lungs. Like thousands of hot tiny razors. I breathe in the seeping soggy air. And it pierces my lungs like a ballon slowly losing air. Life is not meant to be kept it is meant to be lost to the flood waters. And washed away into the sewers. This life is not mine. But it is not anyone else's either. And that is a victory. As the hard ground breathes under me, as I huddle to sleep, I know that even if my life will not be mine, it will not be anyone else's either. And that is a measure of freedom.254Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxpo1DwsCGb
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