The air hangs thick as treacle,
Yet no scent can I discern.
My lungs for breath do labor;
I feel the oxygen burn.
There is no fire or sulphur -
No clinging fetid mold.
I'm merely trying to portray
For you my lamentable cold!
2007 Idaho
Anemone Flynn
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-snippet/
