White, Dave. Willow. May 24, 2024, Dave White Illustrations.

Ice burns through my chest,

I scramble, desperate, for a heartbeat’s rest.

Frozen bones against hollow skin,

My pulse echoes faintly, deep within.

I know I’m alive, yet I feel no fire—

Only emptiness, a void, a tired desire.

Once, flames raged and consumed my core,

Now ashes drift where a soul once soared.

My heart, my essence, scattered like dust,

Blown by the wind, betrayed by trust.

 I am free, or so they say,

But freedom feels like a game I play.

My body aches at the phantom sting,
Shackles that once bound everything.

I thought escape would heal my pain,

Yet I’m trapped in binds I can’t explain.

What is freedom, but another snare?

A promise broken, a breath of despair.

Life’s a cruel and twisted maze,

Each path a shadow, each turn ablaze.

What good are choices when they all descend,

To the same bleak, inevitable end?

I cannot picture a future clear,

But the past roars loud, ever near.

How do I move when the present fades,

When I’m a ghost in the life I’ve made?

I know I must build, forge my own way,

But the tools crumble, rust, and decay.

A privilege, they say, to pick my fate,

To choose my poison, to carry the weight.

Yet each decision feels like a lie—

Another step closer to saying goodbye.

Freedom’s an illusion, a fleeting dream,

A fragile thread that tears at the seam.

But even in pain, I’ll rise, persist,

For somewhere, hope flickers in the mist.