Haven’t been seen or heard,
Sheltered a distance away,
A virus has come in between;
Dread and uncertainty,
Shadows the empty cold halls.
Muffled airy voices,
Once familiar faces,
Hidden behind arid masks,
Quick, light fingers aid me to tasks,
A once affectionate touch, warmth and closeness;
Buried within a latex mold,
Fear marks their gestures;
“Oh its the virus,
We have to be careful,” I’m told.
It doesnt go amiss, that
my next door neighbour is no more.
The musty smell from an unopened window,
Fills my shrunken lungs with dewy air,
The quickened breaths – a labour of loneliness, rather than –
A pantomime of contagion,
That berefts me of companions and family.
Old and sickly, my demise is to come;
Yet, does my journey have to be so dreary.
To keep me alive, I have been kept solitary,
So I implore you to think of me!
To come check on me –
With all you precautionary appendages in situ.
For whatever society might say, without vice or social contiguity,
I am withering inside,
And that is not a life worth living.
The Poetic Life 