The Iron lung

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Garden Fever

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Every breath I take catcalls death
The air tumbles out my esophagus barely delivered
My veins pumping the well dry down to the crags
Our yield does not look promising
I can feel the spaces dissipating
Signs of life diminish as foundation gets swept beneath me
The rest follows as expected and so the heart finally caves
My biology has failed me
The iron lung is not of my composition
A foreign organ beyond nature's reach emulating in isolation
The dream fades exponentially as time flees my perception
Now where does that leave me?
And so the iron lung runs its course
I lay alone with noone to maintain me, stifled, bitter
The world is gone, I am next, and this is what it's come to
It's come to this

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