Now We Are Sixty-Four: VI

A CROWN OF SPIKES

The virus creeps, on lead-pan feet,

And makes us look to inward space;

It’s not so much the missing beat

Of life as it’s the raw disgrace

That comes from knowing that you’ve failed

To keep your distance from the rest;

And put your health at risk entailed

Through contact with the bloody pest.

Pandemic’s cruel spikes ensure

We’ll be a long time shut inside;

To keep our body fluids pure

We’re being forced to crawl and hide;

But there’s a future bright ahead

Showing dimly through the mist;

Because we all down-vote the dread,

Somehow we will all persist.