A blank page,
closed doors, dark ink spills
meaningless bubbles and bumper stickers
of suspended animation and post-graduate dissertations,
one thought bleeding on to next.
Life, shredded, fears dreaded,
decadent decades homogenized and granulated.
And the only kindness in a mire of mud
is the paradoxical prophecy,
echoed from great-grandparents:
This too shall pass.
© Connie Song 2020. All Rights Reserved.
