It calls to me in the wind,
Like a soft, warm whisper,
Beaconing me home.
It wraps its cold hands around my throat,
And I am at it's mercy.
I am free in its chains.
I am powerfully weak.
Like a threaded puppeteer,
I am no longer in control.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
