Can light be firm?
Can yellowed, ray,
Cut through darkness,
Like a blade to clay?
Or does the black of night,
Like the deepest well,
Soak up light,
A sponge of hell,
Drawing down, from up above,
To infinity.

Why wax and wain
of a sad refrain.
It makes no sense,
in this experience,
when whines and cries
portend our demise.

The randomness of words,
lay on my plate.
Too many words may come
and they will suffocate.
The thoughts that are now
running through my head,
wishing they were happy,
but No; fearful instead
The words have become hateful;
not what they should be,
for I care for my own
and for strangers too,
as life has given pause
of what one can do.
A scary situation. It's been hard,
for if you are not diligent
and let your down your guard
you could be the victim
of Co-vid nineteen.

I do not like
the words that I write,
for some are cruel
and others quite trite.
Has the hate of one person
ruined my one good trait,
or must I rethink the words
and I can write and wait?