by Sylvia
It settles softly and thickly
A powdery ashen blanket,
like snow It is so terribly quiet
A quiet that hollows out the meaning of
All the small moments,
The silence and repose,
And leaves something empty:
Moments like dried husks
With dead sunken eyes.
Tomorrow becomes a weight
The past a regret
The present a dull unending ache.
What is it? This thing? What is coming?
The quiet stands unspeaking.
Oh it was Covid. Thanks Sylvie. .<3