The Air, Heavy with Sadness
The air hangs thick. It is a weight that clings,
Like clouds too full to rise, sinking low—low.
Each breath feels like a struggle to pull through,
like walking beneath a sky made of stone.
Is this better, this heaviness pressing,
then when the air was light, too thin to breathe—
when it drifted, empty, offering naught—
No warmth, no comfort, just a hollow breeze?
Now sadness has form, a blanket of mist,
Wrapping around, slow—choking, unyielding.
It crushes, but in its weight, there’s something—
A presence that fills Emptiness I knew.
I step forward, though the air pulls me back,
Wondering if heaviness is kinder
than the silent air, thin, where nothing lived—
nothing but the sharp bite of breathless winds.
WoPoLi 
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