My Way

My way is not a straight path,

I use the sharpest blade of time to carve,
carve the dying white orchid,
carve the depleted thoughts.
Words absorb the few remaining colors of the soul,
telling me that I am damaged.
I listen to the breath of words,
embracing its ethereal shell.
My way is not a straight path,
I will fight with myself to the end.
Confrontation in silence,
dying in confrontation,
rebirth in extinction.