By Andrew R. Duckworth
There was an ice storm that year,
But we were all inside anyway,
Isolated not in fear of slipping,
But fear of the unseen variety.
Everyone had become a stranger-
The neighbor, the friend, family.
And some friends became enemies
As they hissed so loudly
Through posted words,
Issuing forth fangs
We would have never seen otherwise.
We created angels and demons
And not a soul knows who won.
Not a soul knows which is which.
No concerts, they’re canceled.
Few birds in the sky casted a trail.
The dinner plate was moved
From the dining room to the patio.
Vision was obscured, blurred
By the words we heard
From the self appointed saints.
No market place, it wasn’t safe.
Walk the straight line
Through the aisles, and space out.
We were already spaced out by the
Overwhelming amount of information
On a daily basis.
But we’re fast creatures,
Not so fast with our legs
Unless we’re trying to run away
From some semblance of normality,
But fast in moving from
One thing to the next,
One news story to the next,
One fabrication to the next.
Some woke up, and some still sleep
In a bed of their own ignorance.
They say hindsight is twenty-twenty.
Now, I can see so clearly.
We are our own beast to tame,
Our own devil to maim.