Running down on steeps,
going high on a crest
he finds a drill-
too crude in the chest.
Carrying his very being,
pulling his name around a mesh;
when lungs plunge to disgorge the cloister
breathing cuts through his own flesh;
With a pungent wit,
and a rock of will-
he tears his insides
and pant eve more-
just to do, what he did yesterday,
and the day before.
It seems as if from birth,
he is in a hassle,
for a few gulps of life-
ephemeral and nasal.
He looks for a heir,
a face blighted enough
to deliver his credo-
a legacy of illness.
This is a boon,
This is a bane,
This is a charge weighing a ton;
Adulteration of the Mankind-
a job still to be done.
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Comments about this poem (The Asthamatic by Nachiket Quasar )
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