POLLUTION

We all feel it.

The breeze is tainted yellow; anxious.
Every breath allowed us is shallow and short
and our heartbeats sync to the stiff, screaming air.

The moon is heavy and full at noon,
and the trees have become larger and more still
as they surround and confront us.
Something morose and magnetic dictates our movements;
it drags our flailing corpses to their graves.
We’re weak dogs on strong chains.

It’s a frantic, desperate search for clarity
and in our panic to find it
we dig deeper into the growing piles of dying leaves
as the dark rises on our backs.

Our hysteria becomes our hibernation.
Together, we return to our beds alone;
we all feel it.