They call it a miracle, a phenomenon, but all I see is a shapeless, gray fog.
They call it a hymn but I hear the echoes of a thousand voices bouncing off the tomb.
The flowers fill the room with the sticky sweet odor, but I can only taste formaldehyde.
If the walls could close in upon me when I reach the light, then I may finally feel at home
for when I taste the blood upon my lips, their mouths will cry "Freedom!"
The apathy could not kill me, for when I search the skies, only shuttering stars remain.