Portrait of a Boy – John Singer Sargent (Painted in 1890)

To waste one’s breath; to pump into a sieve.
Plautus, Roman Playwright

Before my purse of time is spent,
I must rehearse, until content,
With how I am to play the part,
Of gracious being of undying heart.
.
I know one day lub-dub will end!
Due Death’s foray we fail to fend.
My nostrils yet, airy passage provide;
Neurons numb to ‘Breathicide’.
.
“Breathicide? What’s that”, you quiz,
I summon some air and say, “It is,
Every inhalation that amounts to nought.
Return on oxygen, not spared a thought!”
.
Time’s currency – the humble breath,
Each meant to be spent without regret,
Is often regrettably wasted!
And such expenditure, later lambasted.
.
Breathicide’s blade is deeply felt!
Hark O youth who abound in wealth,
Invest the breath in valuing life!
Lest you are stabbed with Breaticide’s knife…
.
We all bleed a crimson blood of crime,
Wounds incurred by dishonouring time.
By intentioned breath the wounds may heal,
The bleeding stop, its gaping, seal.
.
As long as lungs lively be,
With scope for huff and puff,
‘Breathicide’ may decidedly,
Be blown far enough!