Talking to the wind, and baking in the sun.
My feet may be on fire but I’m too burnt to run.
Into a wafting breeze, I squeeze
out a protesting breath. I quiver, struggle, shake.
My lungs may scream for air but they didn’t want a ton.
Into the ether, I will eventually wither.
Will it grant me sweet relief, or will I beg for a reprieve?
My heart, my brain, they’d like to know what happens when I’m done.