Corona lens

By | 1 October 2020

The thing is in the air
It rides on breath
It strides in crowds
Yet the marchers are out

Night was once believed to be poison air held high by the sun
To fall against the landscape as night
Windows were closed tight to keep the monster away
Creatures of the nigh originally came from as evil almost sentient
Now the thing is all across the globe stealing breath
Yet the marchers feel the need to be out

Wars once dropped bombs at night to those cowering below
Terror and fire and death from the darkness
Ruin born of architectures
Splinters and ill sculpture of home wall and window
And now the thing rides the very air and breath and needs no bomb or craft
Yet the crowds gather now each day

Death is only abstract when it is seen as far away
It waits for all
Compassion is a kind of contact
Empathy and reason are buildings, halls, seas and shores
And they stop nurses to scream about haircuts and sandwiches

Cities slumber now to try to minimize the tentacles of molecules
To reduce the horrors across the world
And the crowds yell into the ether
Self-congratulatory awash in ill formed rhetoric and base human desires
Like death itself can bow down along with reason and sense
To shouted voices
Like the grave can wave a pale flag to the force of will of so much weight and mass
And that the world is but a singular perception
A lens as globe

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