Trails

So beautiful
the morning sky.
No lovely clouds
to mar the expansive blue.
The sea above so entrancing
to small specks on the concrete.
No, wait, see the scar
tainting the eye above.
A trail of sickness
abuses the sublime richness
of the heavens.
Turning, turning, turning.
They begin.
Criss-crossing the skies
with their poison.
Slowly, they spread.
Filling the sky with
mysterious ills.
Those aren't clouds,
more like shredded tissue.
That shape,
not natural.
The false cotton fades
and leaves the sky
a dirty shade of gray.
Was there blue earlier?
I can't remember.
No time to think
as the cough begins.
Can't breathe,
time to visit the hospital.
Why? There is no
answer for us.
Why?