A poem written in one sitting during the middle of COVID-19 when I was feeling particularly low and helpless.
The bug is everywhere; if not now, soon.
Be home, they say. Stay away, they say.
Washing can keep the body safe; what about the mind?
The mask used to be the jewel of the thief;
now it's law. Are we legally required to thieve?
Six Feet of separation Or Six Feet under,
are the only two options, they say.
No hugs, no dancing, no mirthful laughter;
we are all ghost ships now,
charting our silent ways across the inky sea,
no two trajectories ever to cross,
no two journeys destined to twine;
that's what the germ demands, they say.
My home; erstwhile sanctuary, now the cruelest of prisons;
huddled inside with TP and hand sanitizers,
sink full of dishes, cobwebs in every room,
I yearn for any guest, except for That One.
No weekend getaways, no summer holidays,
Only the sombre reflection of exponentials.
No coffee shop run-ins, no drunken pub mistakes,
Only the fervent hopes for flattening curves.
What life is this, not of the living, but the dead
Of spirit, if not the flesh.
What life is this, no future, no present,
only the fast fading memories of a colorful past.
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