No one owns the wild flowers on the highways to the airport;

Consider it treason when I run out of fake words to say.

Who writes the novel-type letters and states the boring reports?

I change the prisons to bars and seasons of betrayal days.

I know I have not yet lost all power in changing their minds.

However, the echo goes and comes in long constant rewind.

There is no better royalty: the blood flowing inside me.

How much does the air...