Made to Burn

The first cough was made to burn.

Ground Zero.

Not flu. Not fire.

Just lies in the dust.

Scraped the gut like a scream you can’t swallow.

Drywall. Jet fuel. Names—crushed into lungs of heroes and suckers.

Choking on someone else’s war story.

Then, a second hand choke,

Stole time and breath.

Blamed it on bats,

Same bastards, different lab.

No sirens in the collective belfry. 

Just dead numbers blinking red,

stacked next to the Dow.

No exits this time.

We stayed put.

Blue light.

Masks.

Muzzles.

Watched each other rot

through plexiglass and pixels. 

Black lungs, shipped with orders from rooms with no echo.

Paper trails—

turned to ash before the ink could lie.

Propaganda hit like a fix.

Said it was freedom.

Said it was safety.

All I heard was America choking

again—

and the boots walking

offstage.