Personal Note: I originally wrote this after the death of my great grandfather in August of 2014. In 2020, the August air can represent so much more. Let me know what it means to you in the comments. Don’t forget to like, and subscribe.
Missouri reaches down my throat
on this smothering August afternoon
in search of something visceral — to eviscerate.
This August air sits on my shoulders
relentless and unyielding
suffocating me in the smoke of its fiery destruction.
Each of us, it touches — the August air.
Saturated with the souls of those it has taken from us
Some of age, by mistake, or accident, or intention
regardless — the air is heavy with them.
The devil, this August air sits on my chest
as I lay in bed — against my will — it deceives the thermostat
hotter and hotter. Thick with humidity. Suffocation.
Sleepless — breathless — I hear them.
Crying, laughing, and distant
yet ever-so close. Hauntingly close. From within me.
One final breath — this August air seeps into every crevice
dissolves my lungs, and penetrates my heart.
It is filled with it — this August air.
I’ll live with it forever — this August air.
And I’ll die with it, this memorial, this August air.
