smoke mirrors
"He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude."
— Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
I dreamed not long ago
A withering flower
Sprouting
From my left clavicule
It was soflty dying
Saw it rooted on my breast
Seeded in my heart
In a blink I plucked it
It felt like a theft
Perplexed it was still alive
Scared me it will invade my body
Silent loud rage when I think of it
Took me longer to see nitid
That the end was the start
