Unleashed fragments of dust and of dander
that burn through eyes, noses, chests and drawers,
like tornadoes of fear, clouds of cancer
in sideways assaults, in pairs and in fours:
To breathe is to scream across a broad void
while jumping into chasms of black tar;
each breath is a pause, and life has just toyed
with its dusty old knife, leaving a scar:
There is fire inside, and water too,
to spit churns them both and burns through the lungs;
one can glimpse, perhaps, what he ought to do,
but the ladder to action's missing rungs:
There are gasps of sadness, gasps of fury,
and longings for thoughts that once did flurry.