An Abandoned Antique

My taste buds have retired;
everything they taste is bland like the truth.
My eyes have given up trying to squint through the smoke
that never flickers; it seems to haunt me like my ghost.
Now I can no longer see the familiar faces;
I wonder if they hide amidst the still smoke.

The polluted air is choking me;
desensitizes my senses, one by one.
It is harsh, like iron clamps, it resists me
from living what is left of my wasted life.
I miss the ones I used to know in the queerest way.
Silence screams wordless anguish at me.

The smoke is toxic; it makes me cough so hard,
and each time I do, I emit parts of my soul;
it is killing me little by little,
scarring me like a cruel disease.
The hidden ones cannot see me.
Or are they even searching?