His heart faded, withdrawing from the burden of the conflict, panning the night sky, holding off the knowledge the slightest of winds could still the stars in their orbit.
Firefly flickers sparked hallucinogenic across his line of sight in the unlit rented room where he had come to rest, come to some static pause between bouts with the pain that weakened him, robbed him of his breath. He stared, searching for the ceiling in the darkness.
Looking up from the stretcher into the neon structures was becoming a familiar scenario. The thought that he could gasp his last breath in the antiseptic light had an ironic appropriateness.
Once again his love of flowers flitted between poppy and lily like some honey bee in search of the rarest of nectars.
How rich it made his words.
How desolate it made his life.
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