A glimpse of a day during the Pandemic

I am told to keep things in perspective,
as sounds of early traffic are replaced
by dead silence.
Coffee waters this town, a million cups filled
then dropped,
as people stay home– reading books, brushing up on skills
despite the horror,
a situation which seems never-ending, glued to television.
I greet the day,
listening as white-heaven bound birds continue to grace me
with their presence,
and look out the window to see cassia trees sway boldly
in the wind–
I wash the dishes and mop the floor,
write poems
as I sip another concluded day and rest my head on a pillow.
Strike me with your words full of warmth,
your eyes unremitting in their viridian desire
and hope;
strike my ruby lips with your own,
until the bedlam stops: until the bedlam stops.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Skylover Wordlist: Strike đź’ť

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

I am under the impression that

pain is invisible.
It can only be felt.
Its less than sympathetic heart rewinds lost moments;
buries one deep beneath the surface.
It dances across the skin,
leaving a trail of mauve affection— why does it come?
Why can’t it be seen?
Ragged at the edges, irrelevant, forgotten
and dismissed; it marks the soul first then body follows.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Day Fourteen ~ Invisible

Posted for Play It Again @ Real Toads