Poetry: “Asphyxia”

There are the few,

With growing numbers.

Cut off from the oxygen,

Low dosages of pure blood,

Toxifying their dirtied organs.

Deep breaths become shallow,

Yet no one repeats what they see,

Dear asphyxia murders their needs.

Slow going at first,

Before the kill turns them obsolete.

The uncorrupted feel threatened,

With each of their stained pleas.

Dear asphyxia tightens,

Around their blemished necks,

Smothering their innocent deeds.

 

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