He climbed the stairway to Bedlam tonight,
His body demanding sweet oxygen.
And every step was a bitter fight
To feed the fires of this scion of men;
Whose bellows have nearly bellowed their last,
And whose furnace succumbed to corrosion.
His reserve fuel levels were falling fast,
As he faced perpetual non-motion:
The familiar ache filled his arms and chest,
And the fuzzy fog crept into his mind;
He stumbled along till he came to rest,
Leaving a trail of used tissues behind.
He opened the tank, positioned the hose,
And the breath of life rushed in through his nose.
Ahhh…
Mick McKellar
April 2016
It's like drowning in air.
Mick
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