The Coronavirus Chronicles #8 - The Wail of a Weeping World (Ignorance in the Sun)

 

The tempest hisses back its spit-laden rage,

terracotta buckles in its wake,

scolds this land whose bluster

is met with forceful retribution.

Many panes have rattled

since the last gasps of Blitzkrieg ailed,

none the better judged,

the inhabitants

no longer know

the scratch of malnourishment,

the gall of a trench,

the tearing of flesh,

the grit of the fight.

Worse than forgotten;

reduced to vacant vectors

they fill the air,

curse the streets,

proclaim this is their freedom won,

ignorant in the bank holiday sun.

Too late this wail of a weeping world

when the damage is already done.

Cummings and conspiracies

Insidious, these aphids

appear green as the stem,

shaped like promising buds,

trail their sweet honeydew:

deceived, the ants lap it up,

ignorant of them sucking at sap,

draining phloem, spitting disease.

It takes hold. Rusted leaves

yellow and curl at the tip,

wither.

Spring meets her premature death.

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Just noticed I spelled deceived incorrectly in the picture! What a daft language English is.

The Coronavirus Chronicles #1 - It is a fleeting death

It is a fleeting death, 

a splutter in time, 

a momentary hack. 

The contagion spreads, 

we fear the end, 

we learn to live, 

though some will die. 

And some will still refuse the chance

to save themselves with one small jab, 

and prove another's untimely end

for fear, mistrust and morbid lies.