The cypress trees at water’s edge hedge an entrance.
We circle senseless, aimless, wheezing from the stench.
We are unprepared for this netherworld mischance,
this lifeless pool without birds where we entrench.
Drawn into the grotto leading to the abode of the dead,
we are alarmed to find the design is quite familiar.
Our handwriting and signatures cannot be misread.
All around our cacotopian creation seems so peculiar.
Dank alleys crowded; COVID corpses decompose.
Back when, we passively handed the reign of power
to a petulant fiendish bully we might not now depose.
His smirking cult spews contempt like a shower.
Meanwhile conspiracy capers cavort clucking tongues,
and we view our nihility specters, seeking our escape.
But this vortex germ befouls the air, attacking our lungs.
Our vertigo fatigue means our breakout can’t take shape.
This is long lost Avernus, the black hole of our making.
Thoughtless, this virus only preys on any for the taking.
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2020
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