He flies above me,
in his loaded airplane
with a loaned vision from someone else,
not me, not me at all.
He cannot shoot me anymore,
demand I sacrifice myself,
or throw my poems and flowers,
my songs and dreams into fire,
his fire...

love cannot burn.

How can one from afar examine,
know a human heart?
I sing everywhere
mending my childhood wounds.
You, with false assumptions,
are not in the sky.
You are in your made up world
and know nothing of me.