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