I crushed a flower
      in my hand.
It felt good.
It felt right.
Felt like I was
      absolutely
      in control.
Petals and stem juice
      stained my hand.
I make a wind
      and
       blow
        them
         away.
Just like a judge
      presiding
       over a trial,
I am the voice
      of justice.
A bloated bulb
      of tremendous
       distance
        begins to roll
         over to me.
Misguided hand,
you must know,
      that what
        you
         began
          will come to pass.
Morphine eyes
see shapes and
      shadows
that flicker briefly
      before
        floating away.
The hand can
try and hold
itself in power,
      but
       in
        the end
         can only
          move as required.
I am as crushed
      as the flower,
       staining
        the palm
         of my demise.