Lungs of fire
a little devil with an axe,
dragging its filthy razor edged nails,
along the walls of innocent flesh,
threatening to tear it apart.
The terror of breathing,
and the absolute terror of not breathing.
These words suddenly peek out of their hidings,
and lure me into changing my clothes,
accustomed to their brief visits,
I know these little liars.
a minute later,
these words are on the shivering floor
as they bleed to their own death,
while I weep for them,
for that's all you can do
when you can't close the buttons of your shirt,
and pull up your pants,
so instead you fall like a soft cloth into a crumpled heap,
five mismatched buttons and pants upto your knees,
because your lungs are suddenly in your hands
and in your legs
and in your stomach
exposed and naked,
and with each movement ,
with each touch,
they raise up their little hands,
and strangle themselves
and all you can do is
watch and watch and watch.
With each breath,
I hear music,
sweet like apocalypse.
I hear the finest music,
played in the depths of hell for Hades,
I hear the bloody screams of life,
sometimes the roar of the ocean
or the crackling of a vanishing fire.
At moments it goes
like a baby hushed to sleep,
and I hear my heart's tiny feet
clapping against the floor.
"Too fast.Too fast for you."
But do children listen anyway?
The music ascends again
and I close my eyes for a dance with darkness
because my mother already took the hand of despair.
People with sweet,fat bellied lungs
ask me "Are you okay?"
I grin and take their warm hands
and let them clash with my icy ones
And tell them,
My lungs are of Gallium
And they are on fire."
The day hands itself over to night
and I find myself staring at a ceiling too white
and too bright
I don't like it.
The wallclock has flowers smiling at me,
I don't like it.
The red bulb at the end of my room,
I like it.
There's a needle sucking into my veins,
pumping gentle packets of miracles,
I know because they enter with a
soothing icy kiss
and gently caress my veins with their tender fingers
as if telling each organ everything will be alright.
how something devoid of life,
is the one solacing it.
12 hours have been waved by to
And I can't hear the music anymore.
My lungs are now ashes
but each breath no longer terrorises me
Instead now each breath is like the ocean
after a tsunami,
gently lapping on the shore,
motherly and pious,
in front of the horror stricken gaze,
of the havoc it wreaked a moment before.
26.5 hours have skipped by,
and life has come back from its vacation in Hawaii,
successfully galloping into this flesh.
A person with nice lungs tells me I can leave,
so I gather my lungs
from under the wooden table,
from their slumber on the sheets of my bed,
and some I pluck from grief's abundant hair in the corridor.
All the pieces fall together,
into a perfect jigsaw,
resurrected like a phoenix after its majestic destruction.
I smile as wide as euphoria,
Inhale exhale inhale exhale.
My lungs fill up with the beautiful summer
and now I hate the red bulb at the end of my room.
Soon I make my escape,
1 mismatched button
and lungs of fire.