On Sundays.

To my living museum:
Do you still open on Sundays?

Blow me into the wind. Melt me through the corridors of my aorta. Lift me to the clouds and yet blow my mind to the Sun. For I get burnt. Burnt into pieces. Burnt unceasingly. My skin burns to bones. My heart burns to flames. And this wind shall blow growing the flames sick. And wild.