The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

the glint in your eyes in the moonshine
are wrought now, with terror and scorn
what once was yours is no longer mine

a gentle rain turned to blurry lines
a spark grown, the fire now borne
the glint in your eyes in the moonshine

once one eye shut, now two are blind
facing catastrophe with your mind torn
what once was yours is no longer mine

windblown, torrential in the same kind
sunrise no longer leads to morn'
(with) the glint in your eyes in the moonshine

prostrate in pain, hands now behind
a final cry, alone and forlorn
what once was yours is no longer mine

a whisper from hate, a loveless sign
finally, clear skies now adorn
the glint in your eyes in the moonshine
what once was ours, is no longer mine

Let my silence teach you

what my words

did not