Ensconced in my cozy home,
News poured in about the virus,
Spreading more wildly than the fires,
That ravaged us and left us gasping
There is now a curfew out there,
No body move, travel or gather, they say,
Just stay home with the ones you live with,
Just stay home with what you love.
Are those the fallen leaves,
Defeated after rejoicing us,
Or the trees to which they cling,
Rows after rows of madness in hues
Or is it the pen,
That awaits with its companion,
The absolutely merciless blank paper
To translate the colors on its stark, white surface.
Or are those the thoughts,
Fleeting, and ever evading,
That must be captured, arrested,
To translate the seasonal surrender.
Or is that the one eyed monster,
That beckons me to look at the stars,
The planets, with their servile moons,
Dancing and prancing in a galactic party.
Or are those the books that remind me,
How pitiful my state is,
How illiterate a man can be,
Amid an ocean of unread art.
Or are they the loved ones,
Among the loved ones,
The life of my world,
And make me blind, hollow and unread.
It is a crowd in here,
I must isolate,
I must go to a shopping mall or a discotheque,
And find some peace and quiet.
But alas! They are all closed,
I have to be here, in my raucous world of my senses,
There is no isolation, there is no peace,
And I must revel in my abject surrender.
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