Beware ancient grudge
Either the red or the blue
It is all purple

sometimes i catch myself
going over the things you said

and wonder if there were things
you didn’t say

if you felt selfish things
you considerately couldn’t say

things
i would have liked to hear

things that would cause us pain

like water
I poured myself into her until she was overflowing at the brim

like reinforced steel
I bridged my heart to hers and welded myself to her soul

like the sun
I filled myself with light to cover her darkness

like a blanket
I shielded her from the harsh world underneath the covers

like magnets
I orbited her aura until we inevitably collided

like a seed
I felt myself growing up from her

Then, like an idiot
I could tell she felt nothing.

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.

what is it called when you write
but never want anyone to understand.
am i selfish-
elitist
a fraud.
or am i-
a coward.
the human heart.
is a poem
i am not.
an author.
i am not
the ink.
not the curves.
the rhyme.
do not read into me-
i am simply
alive.