dawn’s approaching, outside, the psithurism’s heard, my wholeness already swathed by the morning breeze; as if inviting me on a sound sleep, yet, still awake— shattered heart, fractured self, lost soul. . . screaming thoughts; the monsters— they’re killing me. in this four-corner concrete— i was caged. finding freedom, i, scared— that they won’t hear this cry for help. i, afraid— they won’t feel, i can’t breathe, and won’t notice my agony. Keen Balcorta w

Photograph by the author All fowls die young trapped in their cages oblivious to what's outside their inner world oblivious to the meaning of true freedom All birds change their feathers to mimic their environment all birds become flames to survive If I were to become half of what the scenario has done to me If I had the chance of putting on one last costume solely for the sake of entertainment I would choose to be buried alive under all the roses of your dead garden No