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A Smoldering Pinch


Coming to a close, rib-cages meander along with a pinch of air from the radiant skies fumbling around my whispering breath. My lungs I’ve made into charlatans. I’ve rigged the game. I know the risks taken by my own inhalation and exhalation of the filthy tempest I've long unfastened within me. My days tow the dark like manacles being dragged over concrete. I missed the memo sent by the bruised air; words of warning from breath itself, words scraping the black shroud growing in me.

While others tow their breath around smoke, I haul a smoldering pinch of living ash, a clan of hyena scavenging for air. There is hope yet if I but heed my breathing. There are beasts slashing the air’s purity, but none as miserable as me.


© 2010 by mark prime

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