On that morning,
dreary in suspense of opening my eyes,
propped up by only the shakings of a roaming thought,
trepid was my soul reconciling the inaction with what agenda,
to purge the ache of drama to scurry back into conscience,
to disregard the moth eaten flesh,
and back up your plan to flurry in the aftermath.
When the moment happened,
eyes merged into the creamy walls of starvation,
choking the trepidation into minute winces of freedom,
the shock of yellow light above and over my head,
urging glazed pupils to realise,
and flee back into the consciousness that is leaving the room, now,
and to remember only the burning of the light.