This dread.

This Dread















From the desk of Vitasta Raina
Time: Irrelevant

The markets are out of coffee again.
This dread with which we wake up,
lulls us back into deep-sleep.

There is a beeping, an alarm goes off in my neighbour's home,
and on the road below,
men in TyChem suits disinfect the last remains of yesterday.

I woke up today at noon. Didn't think much of it.
I don't wake up a lot these days. I don't sleep a lot either.

This quarantine is a reflective cocoon,
and I'm safe inside the warm sheath,
outside, hungry eyes wander, others walk home.

My days should be divided, I should do so much,
but distribution networks were never my thing,
and vitamins and minerals are hard to come by.

How much blood do you not want to taste in your mouth again?
How much flesh do you not want to chew?
How much industrial strength chemical fumes do you not want to inhale again,
and how much of it will last beyond hope?

When the last ship sails, and when all those who fell recover or die,
will I still be sitting here, warm in my cocoon,
with thoughts composed of wasted time, with grief of lost productivity?
Is there a long-term anymore?

There is no doubt in my mind that I found love,
and love is a 200 mile trek through the wilderness.
There is no use in mending fences with friends,
because hollow words form the chain.

I wish I was a strong contender for winning the world,
I'd use all the hashtags available to man
measure my faces in the golden ratio
and filter my way through snap-chat.

The PM made a speech a week ago,
it said nothing. The opposition parties too
usually say nothing. The weak, march and starve.

My life intertwined with history,
erupts in phases. My face, hidden from the sun,
deviates.

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