Poetry Uncategorized

Will the fog ever lift?

Will this fog ever lift?
I ask without
expecting a direct

I check your pulse
with two fingers
to the ground,
hoping for a sign
of your healing. 

I quiet white noise
with white light, silence
the static of statistics
to steal back
a sliver of sanity.

I feel your cry, though
my hearing isn’t tuned
to your frequency.

I taste
your pain,
the miasma
my tongue. 

Your lungs are
charred from the
fires of progress. 

Your blood is poisoned
by the waste our
greed leaves behind. 

Your back breaks
at the weight
of our sins, the
wars we wage
on your shoulders.

Your heart dies
with every new
extinction, every life
snuffed out.

Your body
must fight the virus
that turned a blind
eye to your suffering.

And so, the antibodies
must kill the virus
that was slowly
killing you.



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