The heavens cry for us below,
who struggle through the times we know,
for us to waken from this night to day.

While sadness wraps and clothes us all,
the silent death whose lives befall,
uncushioned in our quarantine we wait.

As sorrow leaks from out our eyes,
we’ve no one left to heed our cries,
though many of the world have tried and failed.

And while this nightmare plays its game,
we watch in horror and in shame,
as mirrors to our souls this virus holds.

Within the world we’ve made our bed,
amidst the plagues I lay my head,
together as we struggle to survive.

My heart, though heavy for those lost,
I struggle with the debt and cost,
within our nation’s fragile future life.

I cannot fathom, nor believe,
our current state we’ve paid much heed
and listened to the future of our earth.

Though heavy on my heart it weights
Life’s giving us some brighter ways,
to count each day a precious future life.

Your voices whisper on the wind,
a haunting sigh; your spirit’s breath.
Entrapped the day your light was dimmed;
within the spot your bodies bled.

Amidst the ruins of yesterday,
your apparitions call to mind,
and heavily they weigh upon,
the childhood heart I left behind.

When summer makes its curtain call,
and warm winds die, just after fall,
before the winter ice storms play,
and take their place upon the stage.

Your curtain lifts for just one week,
as autumn colors reach their peak
and dazzle us with one last play,
before the audience turns away.

With one last act before the night,
of bitter cold and frozen white.
That final night, you give your all,
and leave with final curtain’s fall.

At last, when autumn comes again,
it brings along its native friend,
and Summer dances on the stage
of vibrant colors, on display.

Your essence scribbled on paper,
it's pain purged from my heart.
From a single corner, a flame
ignites, incinerating your memory.

Slowly, the flame builds,
engulfing all pain;
the part of you that remains,
as you drop from my hand.

Silently, the flame flickers out,
and you turn to ashes, crumpled,
leaving only the black you are,
smoldering within the recesses of yesterday.

Washed clean by flame and water,
encircling a hole of death,
like the vultures you were,
now washed from sight and heart.

I strolled this street of opulence,
where snow, it seems, tastes twice as sweet,
and magic smells assail our sense,
and music dances on the breeze.

The air of grandness on this street,
with buildings dressed in twilight rose.
Aristocrats with wealth, replete,
are dressed to taste this evening snow.

But truthfully the difference lies,
within the heart of those who see,
the truth inside the fantasy,
when snow falls on this Paris street.

As we prepare for life ahead,
our days are spent in mortal fear,
amidst the news and rumors lie,
in gloom our futures seem unclear.

This fear, its blackness lies in wait;
of ceaseless, unrelenting stress,
this unseen monster steals our days,
and fills our nights with great unrest.

Tomorrow’s fears become today’s;
they paralyze and strip us bare,
as all must face tomorrow’s wave,
in this pandemic world we share.

But with this fear, yet comes the hope,
for all of mankind to embrace,
to look for stars amidst the night;
and feel the light of morning’s grace.

For though our path is hard to bear,
yet brighter days will come to pass,
reminding all who these times share:
of every moment’s preciousness.