Pandemically Yours
Listen to poem:
I'll surely rise behind the cloud to a new day dawning,
though sun's rays may grow fewer, secure in grace.
My mind turns to all the days shared without worry of touch, or grave of thought, and found breath free of pestilence, same as you.
Now I remain silent, through Purell's sweet scented night,
hands grow warm, feverish brow warns away.
Warns away your touch I so desperately need to feel alive and stay.
Please never forget this hour, pierced by a knife, pedals torn from the flower.
And please I pray, remember me.., always.
Pandemically Yours,
Pandora
Copyright © Quoth Theraven | Year Posted 2020
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