Human Pandemic

Tonight the river is calm,
summer is approaching. A white
moon is watching over the
town with freshly birthed light.
The wind is walking on shy grass,
passing over an art-piece of mud and
critters and apple trees.

Through the window, your eyes
trace the path of a stray cat making
cautious steps to get to the warm
engine of a car. Your wide eyes
are measuring the night,
waiting as the sky rips open
and darkness floods the city, smearing
your thoughts.

Are you that lonely?
Are these rooms not enough
for you?
You're small, aren't you?

You're a creature who
built cities, flew high with
a machine, reached to the space. You drew letters, tidied them into
languages, composed holy
books, wrote poetry, made history,

and you are still small with all
of your greatness.

You're on your knees,
hiding in a giant house that you
very well know won't protect you,
you're pleading, terrified of an
entity that is tens of billions times
smaller than you, stocking up
bread and canned peas,
scared to starve,
scared to perish into
nothing.

Look through the window,
the world is blooming without you.

Maybe it's finally recovering.