The Red Room (Poetry and Stories)

A Climate of Change

My hands are oil.
A fault runs the length
of my legs. It
slips. A heatwave
burns my gut and
people die of stroke.

They’re clutching their throats,
gasping, a dream of

air

poisoning that last little bit
of happiness.
I am the drug
of choice.
I am
the disease.
The air doesn’t come.

~RyasSyx

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