To fly through time, as sweet as lime, its beauty; a dove. This I shall covet. It’s breath; my air… times hands ensnare. My age is upon the page, where the book is my stage. My life: a doll. Death: a child who calls to play. Nowhere, can I stay, for time is where I hide from all who have lied to me. As I fly through time it is as bitter-sweet as a lime.