Demand of the Divine

Night is falling in too soon,

Suddenly,

Too soon,

The wind abruptly lifted from our lungs as we watch,

And recognize,

Too soon,

The good and sweet we recall of you,

Knowing this is too soon,

For the life that is yours to be removed from ours,

Tears they fall,

Or tears they stall,

As disbelief sets in,

We look to the great beyond

Wondering what resides there,

For you,

For each of us,

Demanding why,

Of Spirit we still long to know,

Long to understand,

If there is a why in the divine,

And what that is,

We demand to know,

For why do the sweet, the young,  the innocent, the good need to go,

And in unideal manners,

And why should and do the good die young,

This is penance for those who remain, 

To watch as you go,

We cry,

As weeping bodies,

Our sacrificial gift for one we love,

You are slipping into the greater existence now, 

in and around us

Joining with spirit,

We will mourn your corporeal existence,

But aim to know you on an entirely new plane,

Just as you will come to be,

May we know you more,

In memory,

Then we ever imagined of possibility.

 

 

Vaccine

I will feel the needles prick,
I have no choice in it,
My system is at a low,
Because of chemicals
On which I must depend,
Monoclonal antibody junkie,
My immune response on overdrive,
Put in check to survive,
This Covid-19 issue
I suppose is stress enough on any body,
Worries regardless of the beast,
My depleted white blood count,
Will attempt to protect,
But if it should be enough,
I cannot know,
I do not want to know,
But God forbid
I should decline
Any hope,
In any solution,
Obscene to deny those who’ve thus died in vain,
This I expose my vein,
Staring straight,
For feel the pierce of needle,
Side effects I know the drill,
Brave the worst,
Survive it,
Will,
No placebo
For this one,
Patience,
One patient
For the vaccine.

Apocalyptic Anticipation

I can’t bring myself
To do
The things I ought to do,
Even ought not to do,
Because I’m stuck,
In a groove of melancholic waiting,
Not really wanting,
Not knowing what to expect,
Or what to anticipate,
In a fast paced
Wait,
Idling in activity that seems so important,
Despite it’s triviality,
In apocalyptic anticipation,
For every moment
It is the end.

I Beg it Doesn’t Go

I want to comfort you,
With words that I fight back,
Because they would be lies,
In honesty,
I don’t know,
I don’t know how this will all work out,
If plans will be dashed,
If,
When sickness will hit us,
If death will miss us,
There is so much,
I do not know,
So much you should not have
To be weary of,
To be aware of,
All I know to do,
Is hold you as close
As I possibly can,
And pray away the virus,
Which your way,
I beg it doesn’t go.

The New Real

My body is a liability,
I am diminished in my capacity,
As a viral assault occurs outside my door,
I am isolated by my own vessel’s vulnerability,
A contagion of which I fear to be host,
Inside my domain I am safe
Safer,
With potential hazards in every touch,
On every surface,
This is psychosis inducing phobia
to remain in such a context,
And yet here we all are,
In our mutual panic rooms,
Or out in denial of the risk,
We are unwilling hosts in waiting,
all,
Distant,
shut in,
This is the new
Real.