December 21, 2020. 320,000 dead from Covid_19 in the US. 1,700,000 dead across the globe. People, like you and me; mothers and fathers and grandparents and children, all loved by someone, all who loved others. Think of them as you read this sonnet.
Covid_19 Poem 5
Bodies stacked like cordwood to the ceiling.
In ICUs all over, death awaits.
There is but a modicum of healing;
Isolé, the holy dying face their fate.
Wee precious, what can be done to heal them?
Machines to help the breathing, nothing more.
Their lungs, they all a’choke on their own phlegm
Drugged, the stricken accede to what’s in store.
A body’s strong and many will survive.
Yet tens of thousands will ne’er see the sun.
Crushing, to know that even if alive
A life that they once knew is now done.
Agonized, the dead issue their last moans.
I am gutted, for most must die alone.
- May, 2020
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