It’s Not Right for Young Lungs to Be Coughing Up Blood

The cherry fire sings and crackles

As the shadow of smoke dances

Against cracked brown soil.

Green grass has succumbed to a yellowish-brown,

No match for the ruthless, blinding sun.

Darkness sprung a werewolf moon

Which reflected upon a hearty stream

Of running, murky water; once clear,

Now ugly, tainted by foot-steps

A boy too young to shave

Acquaints his tastebuds 

With the flavour of bitter wheat.

As smoke swivels into the starry sky,

He takes a drag, and he coughs

A rainless cloud appears

And fades; another boy

With cheeks like red apples

Inhales and exhales and coughs and coughs