Sci-Fi Poem: Another Earth

3033:

Born from
the wet
tar of
industrial
lungs,
nights of
refugees
shivering
huddled
in domes,
looking out
of windows in windows
at a smear
of horizon,
their eyelids twitching
until they rub them
with their fists
like
flies were writhing
inside their pupils

In the spring,
they breathe in
a yellow haze,
coughing out
the blood spit,
their flesh
raggedly
hanging,
blotches
spreading on
their backs
like red
moths
on bark

In the winter,
ashes
float down
so silent
they
taste like
dry bones