Choking on the Future

This hacking in his lungs
it goes on and on and on
lingering like the stench
of the moldy leftovers pitched
last week near the waste bin
but still caked on under the rim
and left to fester indefinitely.

Feeble light flickers through drapes
that offer only the illusion
of privacy, shelter from the elements
and passersby too intoxicated
to notice the slumped figure in outline
hand at the throat weakly clutching
willing the spasms to stop for one night.

Sleep does not come easy with music
overhead and underneath and in between
the walls of the mind crumbling
like the building's foundation
so much sediment blowing away
lost to the unforgiving breeze
scattered to the corners of existence.

There is nowhere left to turn but forward
to face the maladies yet to strike
to leave behind the memories clouded
with remnants of a brighter age
a time when gagging on your tongue
wasn't even a thought considered
as your head hit the pillow at bedtime.