Lift the axe above your head and
smite the breath from me.
If a tree falls in the forest, and
no one’s there to hear it,
does it still make a sound?
I listen to the trees’ cry, as the air
around me thins. Skyscrapers rises
to poke the roof of Heaven
while children wheeze, inhale dust
no longer rooted to the ground.
I . . . Can’t . . . Breathe
Do you feel that? Your lungs
shrivelling, breaking off the trachea,
flapping over your rib cage to hang,
as sheets pinned to a clothesline.
You wheel a respirator behind you,
oxygen flowing from tubes into
flared nostrils. You strike, blade
against bark, oblivious to the
world suffocating, as the last
withered tree topples.
—Nortina
This poem is written as part of #frapalymo. Today’s prompt comes from the questionnaire of Max Frisch: “Who do you think owns the air?” I think everyone owns the air, but many are greedy.
Lovely Curses 
You paint a bleak picture here but your brush work was brilliant.
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