Member-only story
Pandemonium
The pandemic hangs over me like a grave,
A daily fog of my mind
Leaving me motionless.
Maine is a grayness of short days;
Long to get through.
Night passes as a dream.
In best of times described as disturbing,
Now a tabloid rendering
Of life at its most surreal.
This veil keeps Me,
An almost woman,
Sitting still in my chair
Far from the routines of beauty
I was once close to.
Distance is measured in moments not miles,
And longing,
For those moments slapped away,
With the closure of the blinds
Keeping out the sparse light of winter.
Ailments of my body compete for attention
Each raising its voice
In a symphony of aches and pains.
Desires and wants, needs and necessities
Give way to what is available.
Like a wayward child
My life’s urgency alarms me.
I have become so steeped
In a brimming tea cup of fear.
