Asphyxia

Inhale. Exhale.
           Implode.

Explode.

I could not,
could not breathe.
I gasped for air and longed for:
A technicolored urbia, a linear passage through 
the veins of which Manila’s blood pulsates
and pumps into. I gasped for air

And longed for
the past, so I painted the skyline.

Blue – that kind, Picasso blue,
with hints of orange, white;
swirls of melting yellow stardust, white
of Van Gogh hue.

I smelled of smoke, of air
I choked; I could not,
could not breathe.

The stars have died; the moon
less glimmered.
City’s now less lithe. 

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