Poetry in the time of corona

The agony of morning light.

A slight lift of an eyelid and the sunrise is blinding.

Another day with neither a word typed, nor a word read.

The wont of arising to aloneness.

A toxicity seeping from the television set into the lungs.

And a cough escaping the mouth forcefully. Am I next?

The paranoia of our era.

Fingers longing for letters. The eyes yearning for prose.

Art is now a precautionary news article.

The legs demanding fulfilment of a promised adventure.

Twisted spine dug into a couch.

Pillows propping up what was once a head. Now, a vessel of worry. Unable to remain afloat unsupported.

How are you today?

But we are all troops marking time on a Wednesday that will only look like a Wednesday tomorrow.

How do you feel?

There was a time when the mind reasoned with the heart.

They have turned their backs on each other now.

Stillness in the coffee.

No hands slapping down the tables of cafes mimicking the latest argument you’ve had.

No foot shaking uncontrollably beneath the table.

Stillness in the coffee.

An uneventful rendezvous.

What have you been up to?

The direction is downward. A rephrase is in order.

What is the plan?

A plan of no plans. The fatality of an empty routine.

An emptiness of a brain so full of nothing more than potential.

The risk of sciolism we so hardly fought against.

A thirst for a ‘more’ we lost sight of.

Nightime coming in to steal away traces of another lost day.

Reassurance fading as swiftly as the memory of your late grandmother’s embrace.

The desperation to hold on to the feeling, however, remains.

Usual questions. The answers which used to come so naturally.

Fine. Good. Busy week.

Replaced by confusion.

Where do I find meaning again?

When can I call these body parts mine again?

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