I cannot breathe

I cannot write.

Isn't that the whole point of a life?
Or rather, call it irony.
I was born a feather, alone, tied deep into the ground.
Into nature, our soil, mine, and the lands of a massacre.

Yet, witness misery, witness a heart beating.
Witness everything the very instant it blows up.
It burns, it hurts, it scares — away! off! basket!
From I don't even know.
To somewhere near two hundreds fifty.

Isn't that the whole point of my life?
Or rather, call it irony.
I lived a feather, alone, tied deep into the sky.
Into nature, our clouds, mine, and the lands of void.

Yet, witness me, witness a heart dying.
Witness everything this very instant.
It cries aloud without echo — nah.
From I never knew.
To I won't ever know.

I cannot write.