The world unravels in thick, blistered breaths.
Air hangs heavy, slapping like wet canvas.
Sidewalks shimmer, trembling under the sun's stare.
Even shadows forget their cool allegiance.
New Orleans exhales in slow, syrupy sighs.
Every street corner smells of rubber's cry,
melting into riverwater and bittersweet sweat.
Humidity doesn't waltz—it devours whole.
Children's laughter wilts before it reaches the curb.
Ice cream transmutes to soup in waiting hands.
Concrete sags, exhausted under the boiling sky.
It's the kind of heat that softens steel dreams.
Inside, fans groan with futile conviction.
Bodies press against windows for breezes
that never come. The horizon wavers,
a mirage we dare not touch.
Even time seems to bend, drooping
under the weight of this liquid blaze.
Days blur, skin damp, survival crawling.
Still, cicadas sing. Like they’ve never known better.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 17th, 2026 04:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments2
I love this poem filled with images of wetness and heat with a sense of paralysis but the finish of singing insects and there is nothing that New Orleans is known for more than its jaz and music. Well written Gray
Thank You Soren
Most welcome my friend
good write friend
Thank You Norman
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