Fred Aiken Writing

the virus doesn’t look all that bad for an agoraphobic,

it didn’t  change a damn thing

small, pent up olong grains marked with years of wear,

subjected to the strain of compounds wrought in abject solution and constant desolation,

hoping to one day see light,

there is light,

no, where is light,

torn asunder from its shell, its habitat, the only place that little grain felt safe, complete,

and not thrown out from the little corner of this universe it calls home,

where it can wash, rinse, repeat,

under an endless horizon

while bashing its head against the wall

and hoping for a good cup of tea