Everything breaks to the false grip
that holds it for a deeper sense
of love.

All that binds is meant to kill.

I have died a meaningless death to
the slight of your hands.

Killed by the mental grasp of
the image you protect.

I was more than you could ever
hope to own.

Yet I am nothing now...and still you
wish to feel me burn.

So I will be smoke to the fire that
burns to your touch.

You can have my ashes strewn to the
winds of our bitter discontent.

I will find my answers in the
breeze.

As you will find yours...in the empty
hands I leave behind.