Mission Accomplished
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED
We dance, mutate and celebrate: another perfect host.
The old make easy prey, we watch them gasp
and slip away. And our kind are not averse
to the odd doctor or nurse, regardless of their ages.
But while the populace weeps and rages, the death
toll turns, a thousand pages .We catch the young
while on the run , target bathers soaking sun.
Here’s to a babe in its mother’s arms. He takes no solace
from our charms. We proliferate in lungs, leak bodily
juices, giving neither apology nor excuses. It’s strike,
strike and strike again. Attacking gaps in mask, gown
or gloves, we seize our chances.
The target’s cells weep blood, and slowly die.
Our deadly dancers sigh and shrivel, too. But that’s what
we were born to do. Others soon will take
our places, embracing all the creeds and races.
Decima Wraxall
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