The gas in my lungs
has stung the fun,
I am a son of a gun
and I feel no sun.
My mask I wear
it tears and despairs
but my hope is there
but my mask is toxic air.
I breathe my own fumes
and soon I will die.
I don’t want to assume
but the stubborn in me is dire.
The Lord calls my name,
as billows of smoke and flame
choke me the same
because the world loves my pain.
Fallen in rhyme and time
I like to rewind until I find
the greatest gift God gave
which is in my heart and mind.
RMC 
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