Coronavirus
You rushed in, a cold dark secret to all
To cover impending doom's quiet voice
And moved like a shadow upon a wall
With the sweat of death your weapon of choice
The woeful sickness to suffer you bring
To the elderly victim's door, you knock
As the graveyards welcome, the church bells ring
The stench of death's old continuous clock
Wise are those who cleanse labor's hands of you
To wash away fevers of your desire
And overcome your wordless toxic brew
To cool the fatal climate of your fire
Prudent the life made longer from this deed
Embrace the reverence to clean indeed
3/15/20
contest Coronavirus-19
Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2020
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