Wrightings

The year began with disappointments,  echoes of 2019, clinging to a part-time job  that bridged school and work, a community  away from home. Winter blues shattered by a February call—  my brother found incoherent, incapable  of living alone, hospitalized, then placed in residence. A deep dread consumed not hours or days,  but months, it devoured my sleep, as COVID  devoured my writing.  Dark, angry poems poured  from me like syrup, ideas that wouldn't let go. Life  closed in like the walls that held me. A conscious effort, a calculated risk, took me  to the man I now claim.  A single  hug rekindled  a flicker of hope, as vaccines  and elections blew on the embers. A new project  commitment carries me into 2021, only looking back  to rewrite the future.

The shrillness of the stillness is sickening to the quickening, distancing from the potential of the dilemma of influenza, no corona like lymphoma or pneumonia symptoms for me. Covid novel eroded misquoted twaddle this systemic epidemic Is pandemic. The virus like phthirus affects our gyrus. So, in our lockdown don’t break down instead let’s take down the virus in isolation and filtration for the duration. * this poem first appeared @ Pendemic.ie