Sunset over another year.

Solitary confinement
nine months and counting.
Self-imposed isolating prison
securing safety.
Sleep walking from wall to wall.
Avoiding liveliness.
People generally.
That disease that shall not be named.

Black mirror light.
A world through touch type.
Distant.
Saccharin.
Soothing wireless sound.
Deep voice midnight DJ.
Familiar milestones
marking many sleepless nights.

Bending time slips away.
Drop by drop.
Inch by inch.
Aching glacial wave.
Millennium long days.
Another year wasted.

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This is not a piece posturing on pandemics.
Stop sign here — no panic intended.
Laws of logarithmic numbers
in that global mystery
are for epidemiologists to decipher.

Mine is a question asked
as a part of another puzzle.
Believing other fragments that fit
where the gaps exist
are lost in an ocean of mismatched pieces.

Pondering the challenge.
A pan is drawn to a particular personality.
No one else satisfies the pursuit for their pleasure.
What would be the odds
of two pans wanting only each other.

I guess a pandemic would increase those odds.
In a self-isolation scenario.
An infinite dilemma.

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Cristina Archer

Cristina Archer

political whipping girl (aka public policy adviser), writer (speculative fiction/poetry/life), aspiring photographer, wig collector, with Méchant Publishing