Monica Rhodes - Never coming back for this

I’m shattering the glass shroud of ether...
To find the scent of rain.
While April numbs my veins with a silver, driving stain.
My hands, once prisoners of plastic weaves and ties,
Are reaching for the oak bark under heavy, budding skies.
Death sat at the edge of my white-sheeted bed,
Patient as a sculptor, counting threads of the dead.
But in my pocket, the brass of my keys starts to sing,
Of doors where the wind makes the garden gate swing.

Those keys aren't phantoms, they’re the weight of a life,
Sharp as the morning and the edge of a knife.
The white silence is breaking, the shadows are thin,
I’m shedding the hospital like a second skin.
The tea on the table might be cold and dark,
But the fire in my marrow is a persistent spark.

My lifeline is thicker than this needle’s grain,
I’m pulling the anchor, I’m breaking the chain!

Pulse skipping beats, heart hitting the wall,
One foot in the grave, watching everything fall!
The alarms are screaming through the sterile mist,
Yeah, we never coming back for this!

Rip the wires out, feel the adrenaline surge,
Standing on the line, right on the verge!
Death took a swing but he’s gonna miss,
Yeah, we never coming back for this!
I hear the howl of a dog echoing across the fields,
Ignoring the wind on those parchment shields.
I see the golden light in the window, supper’s on the stove,
Turning away from that silent, hollow cove.
Not today. My blood is the color of the rising sun,
Between the fractured pulse and the life just begun!
Sitting in the plastic heaven of the waiting room,
A stranger to the shadows in this sterile tomb.
The clock on the wall carves eternity into grains,
Waiting for the signature to break these porcelain chains.
The discharge papers crumpled like a shroud cast aside,
I’m walking to the parking lot with nowhere left to hide.

The glass doors behind me fall silent and still,
April swallows me whole, against the winter's will.
Yeah, we never coming back for this.
Never coming back for this.