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"Between The Mangled & The Masses"

Grey clouded sky, dreary and worn,
We confide only in dwelling,
Imaginations by dim lit fire,
Occasional stench at God yelling,

It now has been just short of a year,
That life as we knew would change,
Forbidden to see the outside world,
In fear of looking different or strange,

The evil spirits now with free range,
Loved ones stacked up in the yards,
Daily routines of checking limbs,
Fingertips black as night not ours,

Small bumbs at groin sure indication,
Slow painful end and numb,
Infallible token of approaching death,
On whomever black spots shall come,

Across the valley spring draws near,
Flowers bloom undetectable sense,
Rotting flesh so evident,
Flies on the walls so dense,

Rats become only free life,
Contaminating all with curiosity,
Corroded spirit of substance bleek,
Bubonic plague atrocity,

God can be cruel, faith I still hold,
Todays limbs noticably swollen,
Grey cloudy sky, dreary and worn,
Still I confide in this dwelling,

© Chris Backhaus

Keywords: epidemic