I walk in the field of wildflowers to let my worth smell of intoxication for roses don't make rush in me dopamine, from the day I replaced satchel with bottled heart. Every time I inhale, a whiff runs in my blood of insobriety, of diesel-ed smoke, of flickering seasons, of entranced breaths and inconspicuous depart.
I bask upon the scented meadow, paying no heed to familiar faces in the crowd who surged in my life as dreadful flood when my heart was a paper boat. Only if I've known not to draw in a single breath of wildflowers, I'd not dare to touch them in anticipation, I'd not dare to consume temporary sucrose but lifelong poison.
I walk and walk till I reach afar from this noxious field but life is a tenacious companion out of all the weeds I should've known, from the time I've birth-marked my existence. I seep into life little by little, I glide my bones over its epilogue, the traces of age and growth splashes over my crumpled skin and I wonder why I keep holding hope more than I hold myself in such a deathly realm.