Chestbellow

Skin sloughs away
Every single day.
I'll raise a hand before my eyes
and as I taste tin
I'll do my best to breathe it all in.

A great bellows filling
and out from it spilling
a poisonous cloud
oh, but do not be proud.
We all make metallic sounds every day.

Slow down, take your time.
There is no need to sob or whine.
You've always been a live one,
so your father says.
But he never got the gears out of his head.

Don't shield your ears,
though there is much to fear.
You'll weather the storm
of metal-torn forms
but the bellows of your chest are near.